Infinites
by Phantomphaeton
Summary: Shades of gray are where the world can grow and thrive. It's where the magic happens. It's where infinites come out to play.
1. Past: Day One

**Note: PLEASE READ**

Hello again. I've been holding onto this last installment for a while because I was unsure about it, but a review I read by an anonymous writer got me motivated to put it up. To all of you, let me explain that this last installment chronicles two weeks from Robb's point of view: the week he spent deciding on a bride at the Twins and a week in the present time. I'll be posting two at a time (hopefully) as quickly as I posted Absolutes and Definitives.

And to that one individual who posted that beautiful review: thank you, anonymous reader. I'm glad that this tale has helped you feel better whenever you were feeling down and I'm very lucky to have you as a reader. If anyone out there doubts the power of words, know that this anonymous reader's lone review changed my mind about sitting on this story.

 _ **The Twins, Past. Day One.**_

I feel my impending doom long before I even see the Twins. They stand tall and proud, still and strong, but I can't help but feel like they're taunting me.

"Ha ha!" They seem to sing. "You've lost the girl and now you get a goblin!"

"They're a pleasant bunch of girls," Mother insists. "A very pleasant bunch. Quite a few terribly pretty ones."

I'm still inclined to believe they're goblins. My head hurts too much to care. I'm not even sure how I'm sitting upright on Shadow right now. He trots slowly, as if sensing my apprehension.

Mother talks on and on about how she knew Walder Frey since she was a little girl, but she always seems to glaze over certain subjects about him. I understand why the instant the doors are open and I catch sight of a few little girls of his own running out of sight. And by little, I mean like barely out of the toddler stage in their lives. Not granddaughters _. Daughters_. _His_ daughters.

So he's _that_ sort, then isn't he? Well, at least I'll have a wide range to choose from.

"Twenty one," Mother says quietly, tilting her chin discreetly to the girls seated at a long table below. "Those are the eligibles."

My eyes hurt and I don't want to look at them. Mother reaches under the table and squeezes my leg.

"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head to snap out of it.

"I know it's difficult," she says quietly as Walder bursts into a fit of laughter beside her at something I can't be bothered to comprehend. "But you are doing what's best for the North. And the North needs one of these girls to come back to Winterfell with us."

Hearing her say it doesn't make it easier. In truth, it just makes me angry. Why should one of these shallow clams get to come with me and walk the halls of my home? Why should one of these little feather-brained chits become the mistress of Winterfell? Which one of them is even worthy of laying eyes on the castle or sleeping in my bedchamber or saying my name or—

Be fair, Robb. Be fair. Don't be bitter. It's not their fault. They didn't ask you to make this deal. And they didn't ask you to want to break it so badly. And they didn't ask you to hurt from being here. You did that all by yourself. So suck it up and take a look at that table.

There's one with hair that's dark and straight, like hers. There's one with eyes that are big and brown, like hers. There's one that laughs a little like she did.

"That one seems nice," I say, gesturing distantly to a blonde with a similar smile.

"She does," Mother says. "She does. We'll get her name when they come to greet you."

No, no, no, I don't want to know her name. I want the name of the one next to her because she has the same exact hands that she did.

"No, the brunette," I say quickly.

Mother smiles at me. "She's a lovely one, isn't she?"

Now the thing you must know about the twenty one eligibles is that none of them are ugly. Not one. There are more than a few Plain Jeynes, yes, but none of them could ever be called ugly because when you find something pretty on one, it's a sensational type of pretty. There's a girl towards the far back of the table whose face is utterly forgettable, but she has the most devastatingly gorgeous hands I've ever seen on anyone—including _her_. There's another one who's slightly less forgettable than the one before her, and she has the silkiest looking mane of blonde. It catches the dim light of the candles and shines like sunlight. One of them has a lush pair of lips I didn't even think could exist even though the rest of her is totally normal. See what I mean?

Mother's eyes dart discreetly from girl to girl until she's covered the whole table, and then they stop to rest in one particular area and they don't move for a long while. I can see it. She's found the Big Ten. The top contenders. The girls I'd be a fool not to consider. Which automatically means that I shouldn't even consider the other eleven. Well, that simplifies things for me. Thanks, Ma.

The twenty one eligibles come to greet us in pairs. I barely catch names, only curtsies and distant smiles. Mother does most of the talking, which is good because I'm more distracted by the wine.

"I've narrowed it down to ten," Mother tells me as soon as the last of them has taken her seat back at their table. "Ten worthy of consideration, but bear in mind that you have to dance with all twenty one of them at the ball."

"What ball?"

"You remember?" she nudged me, rolling her eyes. "Lord Walder is throwing a ball to celebrate your successful campaign."

Oh, yeah. Why did I not remember that? Oh…that's right. I was completely drunk by then. She had just left the encampment for Ironrath.

Heartache is like a stomachache. But not the sort of stomachache like you're full of food or you drank too much. It's a stomachache like you're hungry. Starving. Famished. Ravenous. Like you haven't eaten in days. It's a hungry stomachache in your chest. My heart feels hungry. It's a stupid way of putting it, but there it is. And to be perfectly honest with myself, I'm afraid. Because she's gone and now there's a Talisa sized hole here where she used to be and I'm afraid that the Big Ten won't be able to fill it back up. And now it's here again—that longing. Not for her, but for those days when she wasn't there, before I met her, before her smiles and her stares and her thoughtful looks when I would have been able to come in here and pick one of the Big Ten easily. I miss when it didn't _hurt_. And missing a time when it didn't hurt is what ends up hurting the most. And I'm terrified that I'll never stop missing that time, that there might never come a day when I wake up and she's not the first thing I think about, when I'll smile and really mean it.

"Eyes forward, Robb," Mother had said that night. "Eyes forward."

"What sort of heart doesn't look back?"

"The sort that knows that what we build for the future can outlast the fancies and trifles of the past."

"She's not a fancy," I said. "She's not a trifle."

"Yes, she's not many things," Mother said. "She's not a fancy and she's not a trifle. But she's also not what you promised Walder Frey. If you were someone else, then you could choose, but you are the King in the North. And it's not just your future that hinges on this agreement. It's your _kingdom's_ future. It's your family's future. Sansa is trapped in King's Landing at the mercy of that poisonous inbred little monster, Gods only know if we'll ever see Arya again, and Bran and Rickon—my poor little boys…"

There wasn't much choice, in the end. Talisa or the North—and my family along with it.

 **The Big Ten and Why I Shouldn't Marry Any of Them**

 **Reina Frey** : The most obvious choice if beauty were my primary concern, this girl is upbeat, kind, and endlessly charming as I noticed myself when a lull in conversation at our table caused me to overhear several minutes worth of revealing discourse between her and her fellow ranking sisters.

"That spotted muslin makes you look like a pudding," she says to a girl I can't see. "You should have worn the red."

"And you?"

"Well, you know me. I'd charm the breeches off that gorgeous ginger if I wore nothing at all."

 **Aradel Frey** : Another obvious choice as far as looks go. Bonus points for being tied to House Mormont. Deducted points for having an incurable sneer that Talisa would never be caught with.

 **Rhea Frey** :

"He's a pretty lad, isn't he? I'd have the whole damn castle watch me ride him until he breaks in half."

No, thank you.

 **Bria Frey** : Apparently the only daughter among nine children from one mother, daughter of Walder Frey's longest lasting bride. Nice smile, terrible posture. Talisa had perfect posture.

 **Roslin Frey** : Pretty in a sweet, quiet way, this is a girl who looks like she spends most of her time stitching in the darkest corner of the keep. I'm not interested in marrying a girl who looks afraid of her own shadow.

 **Israel Frey** : Pretty—although unconventionally so. Otherwise sort of forgettable.

 **Lucyan Frey** : Has a very normal pretty face, excellent mouth, and the most confident glint in her eyes that says 'I will suck your cock, your money from your coffers and your soul from your body.'

 **Jaclyn Frey** :

"You know that the bloody merchant has started charging a transport tax through Pentos now? I had to pay double for the tiles on the mosaic tub!" says one who's name I've already forgotten.

"A mosaic?" responds Jaclyn. "What is that? Is that good?"

No.

 **Walda Frey** :

"The King is so handsome! Oh, his hair's like a cherry pie, I could stroke it for hours. Cherry pie…where's the pie? I'm hungry."

 **Marlow Frey:**

"I'll tell you what part of him I'd stroke—it wouldn't be his hair."

 _For the good of the North. For the good of the North. For the good of the North. For the good of the North._

Show me the Mother's mercy and kill me now.


	2. Present: Day One

_**The Twins, Present. Day One.**_

Once when I was really little, I pulled a tablecloth out from underneath three jugs of wine. Needless to say, the result was awful. There wasn't any point in running and hiding because it would have been clear to anyone exactly who was responsible for the mess, so I just sat there like a good little boy and waited for Mother to come in so I could explain to her how I flooded the room with Dornish Red. I don't actually recall the verbal lashing she gave me for it, nor do I recall the punishment I got because of it. But I'll tell you what I never forgot: the anticipation. Waiting for your comeuppance is never an easy task. Especially not when you know you sort of completely deserve it. I'm not sure how this correlates to sitting down with Walder Frey, but I swear it's the feeling I always get around him. Like I'm about to get my comeuppance.

Walder Frey is skinny, nearly toothless and living proof that we may not be alone in the universe after all. His hobbies include drinking, scolding, drinking, scowling, drinking, smacking his lips, drinking, pumping his meat into anything with a hole to receive it, drinking, and staying hydrated. He doesn't like to move from his seat nor does he ever give anyone a reason to doubt that he will die of anything other than wine poisoning. His last words will most likely be either 'tits' or a call for a refill.

Did I mention that he drinks?

Such a man has very little in the way of redeeming qualities, but I can say that he does—at the very least—comprehend basic values. His children and grandchildren are his most valuable assets, occupying that space in his heart right between the part that lusts for women and the part that lusts for wine, a bit north of the part that lusts for gold. Family is important to this man and you can't help but feel like a man who places such value upon his kin can't be truly terrible after all.

"Children and grandchildren," he says. "Were born to obey. They are life's most valuable resource. More valuable than a whole valley full of gold or all the Lannisters in the world is a well married son or daughter."

What an _excellent_ chap.

But let's not be too quick to assume the worst. Before I write this man off as a cold social climbing bastard, let's recall one crucial point: he fathered Israel Frey, and any man who can pull that off must clearly know what he's doing. After all, it takes real skill to raise a girl this clever. But of course Walder Frey, being Walder Frey, doesn't seem to notice whatever he managed to do for her as far as her quickness is concerned. He prefers to pride himself on her other achievements.

"Of course she had a son!" he says loudly. "She's a Frey girl! They can get the job done right the _first_ time!"

To this I respond by following the example he set for me.

"More wine," I say, holding my goblet out for a refill.

Walder is already polishing off his second jug full of the stuff, and if the fact that he isn't even slurring yet isn't a clear enough indication of how much time this man devotes to soaking his innards in overdue grape juice than I can't help you. I wouldn't mind this, it's just that Ned is sitting on his lap, gurgling and making little sucky noises with his mouth to distract himself.

"We should give him a taste," Walder says, looking down at his grandson. "Prince Ned want a taste? You'll like it, little one."

"I think he's a bit young for something that strong," I say.

Please don't give my seven month old baby anything coming out of a Dornish crate.

"Young? Nonsense!" Walder says, waving me off. "Waldron was drinking milk with rum when he was four months old! Look at the chap now!"

We turn and look across the dining hall, where Waldron walks straight into a wall. He shakes his head, looks around, dusts himself off and turns to the left, evidently unaware that he is facing a corner and therefore walking into—what do you know?—another wall.

"Sharp young man," I say. "Ladies must love him."

"Not too many he can get his hands on around here lately," Walder says. "Most of the brothels are emptying out for the monthly cleanings so none of us has got too many choices anymore unless you count the girls in here and what do we look like to you? Lannisters? We can keep our hands to ourselves, thank you very much. Raised by human beings to act like human beings."

"Indeed you were."

"How's Izzy holding up in Winterfell?"

"She's doing tremendously. No one can hear her name but to sing praises about her."

"I knew she could do it. I knew she could make them love her. Anyone of my girls could have done the job, you know. You want a good queen? The only good ones are the Frey girls. Sure, Mormonts are pretty and Manderleys give plenty of sons, but you want a combination of all the best? You come here. You come _right here_. No equals in all seven of these rattrap kingdoms that can match my girls for looks or sons or wits. Such a clever bunch of girls."

And our eyes are drawn down to the many tables in the hall. Israel sits with her sisters tonight. She thought it'd be awkward and boring if she had to spend her first night back in her childhood home dining with her father. I don't blame her.

"Terribly clever," I agree.

"And so affectionate," Walder adds.

Israel is seated between the pretty ones. I can't recall their names. Reema and Delia, I think. A tall one says something, and another reaches over and then soon the whole hall can hear the echoes of maybe six different arguments going on at the same time.

"Give that back or I'll scratch your eyes out!"

"You're just jealous because he only smiles at me!"

"There's always one stupid one that can't stomach a little sheep stomach."

"How much blood can you swallow before your head starts to get funny?"

"I'll feed you your teeth!"

"Terribly affectionate," I agree again.

There's no option. Raising a hope of disagreement might end in my untimely death. King in the North or King in the latrine pits—there's no stopping these people from tossing my corpse into the river.

A very hairy, very sweaty arm pit scratches the back of my neck as an arm drapes over my shoulder.

"Welcome back to the homebase, oh dear brother bear!" says the lump of flesh, bone, and rum that might once have been Garner Frey, but has now become a part of the ecosystem I call the North Tower of the Twins. You'd be surprised how strong such a wreck of a man can be.

"Great to see you again…brother," I have to choke out the last word because to tell you the truth I'm hesitant to be referring to any of these people as family. It's always going to be one of life's greater mysteries how a girl like Israel Frey could have come from amidst such strange people.

Olyvar runs through the hall screaming like a madman. Someone's set his sleeve on fire and he can't find anything non-flammable to put it out with—all the liquids that are available in the room are only going to make it worse. Garner cracks up. His breath reeks of rum and ale and…chicken? And it's been a long time since he's bathed properly. I look over at Walder, but my heart stops when I see him dip his finger into his goblet and give Ned a taste of the wine on his finger.

"I think it's past his bedtime," I say, not sure if I should just dive in and save him or if that might offend Walder. It's hard to tell with these people.

"Bedtime? Huh. Awfully funny for a prince to have a bedtime," Walder says.

"Well, he _is_ just an infant."

"None of my children ever had a bedtime, if I recall correctly," Walder says. "The boys _or_ the girls. Did you ever have one, Y'Grace?"

"Well…not exactly…"

"Well, it's settled then! We'll let the little prince drop when he drops!" Walder stands Ned up on his lap and bounces him up and down. "You hear that, little prince? You get to stay up all night with me! Won't that be fun?"

Ned just stares at him. His eyes find me, and I swear a seven month old baby is looking at me right now asking me what the fuck is going on. And I swear I have literally no answer. So after a while Ned looks back at Walder, who sort of gives him no choice but to seize his attention by bouncing him again with a half-toothless smile, so Ned gives him a toothless smile of his own. And he throws in a giggle for good measure, the clever little boy. But it's not an amused giggle. It's sort of a nervous one, filled to the brim with confusion and what the fuckness. And if there is ever going to be a moment in my life where I'd be inclined to say I'm a failure as a father, then this will probably be it.

Olyvar's screaming goes on for ten minutes until they finally subside, and someone nearby tells me that he has run all the way to the river to douse the flames. Two unidentifiable young men hang by their legs from the rafters, and Waldron discovers that it is humanly possible to remain standing upright after drinking an entire barrel of mead.

"I'd say it's been a successful night all around," Walder says with a satisfied expression, looking out at the madhouse that has become the dining hall. Israel and the girls sit happily at their table, so engrossed in the threat of tearing each other's hair out that they don't actually notice what's unfolding around them. That, or it's too commonplace for them to care.

"Indeed," I say.

Waldron empties another barrel, and this time he falls asleep in it. He's too big to move, so we elect to just leave him in there. The unidentifiable brothers are safely lowered from the rafters, and by safely I mean one breaks his collarbone and the other breaks both his arms. Olyvar comes back soaking wet and a crayfish is clinging to his shoulder but we're all too freaked to tell him so. Mother just looks at me with this face of quiet resignation, and something about her gaze tells me I'd be wise to adopt her attitude. Maybe I should. I mean…Israel came from this family, right? So there must be some good in them. I mean—everyone gets a little cooky when they celebrate. I can't sit here and judge these people for being wild party animals when only a year ago Ser Holland gave the entire great hall a strip tease. Uncle Edmure still tosses silver coins at him sometimes. Let's try to be fair here. So remember the positives, Robb. Positives only.

Israel Frey was raised here. Those two dangled from the rafters for north of an hour before their heads got woozy. Waldron can drain two barrels of mead. And now my son is drunk.

"He likes it!" Walder says. "Don't you, boy-o?"

Ned hiccups.

The fact that all of this produced Israel…it's impressive, truly. In a way that's really not so much impressive as it is just sad and disturbing.


	3. Past: Day Two

_**The Twins, Past. Day Two.**_

People are all sober and well behaved. The great hall is well lit and looks oddly bigger than it did last night. The strongest intoxicant available is this watered down white wine and the fact that even Walder Frey is drinking this weak sauce is my first clue that I'm in for a long night. The second clue is that the girls are presented one by one to me, and every single one of them is dressed in a gown of pure, spotless white. As in 'I'm a virgin' white. As in 'here I am at the tailor's to pick the fabric that would best suit my needs'. It's humiliating enough for me—I feel truly sorry for these girls. It makes me wonder if it's humiliating for them as well.

"Your Grace is an uncommonly talented dancer," says Lady Aradel as we revolve around the room.

I'm not sure how to reply to that, so I just smile in appreciation.

I've been through three of the Big Ten and six of the Forget-About-Them girls. My feet are sore from all the dancing and it's not even midnight. By the time Walder finished presenting them all to me, I felt like I was drunk. Speaking of drunk, I'm pleased to see that this night is uncomfortable for more than just myself—Walder has only just begun to feel the effects of not being constantly watered with rum and wine.

"Gotta stay clear headed tonight," he mutters to himself. "It'll take me a decade to get drunk off this goat piss."

"Is it wrong for me to be unsettled by how calm and quiet everyone is?" Edmure asks Mother.

"This is a very important night," Mother tells him. "I'd be worried if they didn't take it seriously."

"I'm more worried that they are," Bryndon says. "Nothing's worse than the silence before the storm."

In tonight's case, the silence before the storm has taken the shape of twenty one girls dressed in white and a stone-cold sober Walder Frey.

"I always prefer to slow bake mine, though," Walda says to me halfway through our dance. We've spent the better part of our time together talking about meat pies. "Makes them softer, but you have to be careful not to burn the bottoms. Nothing's more shameful than a burnt meat pie."

"Indeed," I say. "Terribly shameful."

The outlook so far is not a very good one.

 **The Big Ten and Why I Shouldn't Marry Any of Them**

 **Reina Frey** : Has not sat down once since the ball began. Danced every dance with every available man, including me, and shows no signs of tiredness. Her energy frightens me.

 **Aradel Frey** : Looks the prettiest of all of them so far. Has requested all of the good songs and is presently settling a gamble between her brothers over which of them can get drunk the fastest on this watered down abomination that has been served to them.

 **Bria Frey** : Listening to her brother Olyvar narrate the thrilling tale of this one time he got his most sensitive extremity caught in a beehive.

 **Roslin Frey** : Lingering by the window with a handful of flowers stolen from the buffet table centerpiece that she is presently spinning into a garland while simultaneously refusing to dance with basically everyone who comes near her.

 **Israel Frey** : Disappeared from view shortly after being presented and is presently nowhere to be found.

 **Lucyan Frey** : Vanished maybe twenty minutes ago with the Master-at-Arms son, which makes it immediately clear that she should not be wearing virginal white. Well, she's having more fun than I am so hats off to her.

 **Jaclyn Frey** : Recently discovered that she does in fact have fingerprints.

 **Walda Frey** : Only abandoned her post at the buffet table to have a single dance with me, which she spent giving favorable critique of the miniature meat pies.

 **Marlow Frey** : Someone else who should not be wearing virginal white. But again—I commend these girls. They know how to find fun in a hopeless situation.

I've danced with thirteen of the twenty one when I decide that I will not survive the night if I don't find something stronger than this watered down wine immediately. Where on earth is the rum? The mead? I _know_ they have some—unless Waldron is hiccupping for his own amusement.

Roslin gets to her feet and disappears out the door discreetly. Maybe she's headed to the garden. I should probably get out for a few minutes myself. I need some fresh air. And a strong drink. Either would be nice, but I'd prefer them both.

Roslin heads out to the garden and through the window, I can see Israel seated on one of the stone benches, boredly staring out at the grounds. So this is where she's slithered off to. Well, I can hardly blame her. The ball is almost embarrassingly plain in its purpose and she's lucky she's one of twenty one so she can disappear. If only there were twenty one kings in the North so I could have her luck. Roslin sits down beside her and places the garland atop Israel's head. Israel kisses her cheek and holds out what looks distinctly like a flask to her. I should have known that sponge would have access to the good stuff.

Target acquired.

"Evening, ladies," I say as smoothly as I can, trying not to make it immediately obvious that I would either go down on or murder the both of them for that flask.

"Good evening, Your Grace," they say, getting up and curtseying before they retake their seats.

"I'd have thought you'd be dancing the night away inside," Israel says.

"It got a bit warm in there," I say. "I needed some air."

Israel holds out the flask. The look on her face plainly shows me how clearly I must have appeared to need it. Bless this girl.

"How are you finding the Twins?" Roslin asks quietly, and instantly I can tell that they're only bothering at all to be polite. Which is funny because I didn't have any of these Frey girls down as girls who would trouble with manners.

"Wonderful," I say. "It reminds me of home."

"You must be sorely missing Winterfell," Israel says. "How long has it been now?"

"Three years," I say. "Three years."

"Lady Catelyn must be so excited to be returning after all this time."

"Terribly excited. She's been missing it awfully and I do confess I'm scarcely less keen to be returning."

"I have it good authority that the library at Winterfell is the best in the North," Roslin pipes in before she huddles back in on herself and doesn't emerge again.

"I suppose it is. I never spent as much time in there as I ought to have done, unfortunately. I was never much of a reader."

And then I backtrack, because it occurs to me that I might have just given these girls the impression that I don't actually know how to read. I look at them. They blink at me.

"Sometimes meeting such eloquent and educated souls makes me wish that I took a greater interest in reading," Israel says after a beat, clearly sensing the hole I inadvertedly flung myself into. "But there always seems to be a more appealing distraction waiting for me."

I smile gratefully at her. I think I like her a little better now. You can't help but like a girl who doesn't let you look stupid for the sake of being nice. Which sort of interests me because she didn't have to do that. Be nice. But she did and it was…nice.

"Is this rum spiced?" I ask, noticing the odd sensation on my tongue.

"Unfortunately. It's all I could sneak before they sealed it away. But I think I saw Waldron hiding a bottle in his room," Israel says. Here and now in this moonlight is when I get a really good look at them.

Her dress is more subtle than the other ones I've seen on the girls. Her dark hair is braided aside and the flower garland makes her look sort of like a fairy. She's pretty. Terribly so. The both of them are.

"You've grown awfully quickly on our sisters," Roslin says casually.

"Yes," I smile. "They're a wonderful bunch. I've been invited to luncheon in the orchard with a few of them. Will you two be there?"

"Indeed. Your company will make it a delightful afternoon."

Something about the way she sounds sort of tired when she says it clues me in to the fact that Israel Frey is sort of trying to be polite and not making it immediately clear that she wishes I would go away. I can't help but like the way she's handling it, though. I would never have guessed it if not for the fact that I've been carrying myself in the same way since I got here—putting on a smile when I wished that everyone would go away. What I wouldn't give to be able to pretend as effectively as she does. And maybe seeing that crown of flowers puts it into my head, but I can't help but notice that how well she can pretend _alone_ would make her an excellent queen. If she can keep this act up with a crown of flowers, then how well could she do with a _real_ crown on her head? Well, there's only one way to find out.

"I haven't had the honor of claiming your hand for a dance, Lady Israel," I say to her.

She doesn't want to do it. I _know_ she doesn't. But if I hadn't already known it, then I wouldn't have guessed it from the way she immediately smiled at me and took my hand. I lead the both of them back into the great hall, and Roslin promptly vanishes back into the shadows from whence she came, leaving Israel and I to revolve around the space to the music which has gotten softer as the minstrels get drunker. Israel is silent as we dance, and I'm doing fine because I've just found some amusement to pass the time with. Where do I poke for the real face to come out?

"You are a sensational dancer, Lady Israel," I say.

"I have a sensational partner, Your Grace," she says back with the most deceivingly sweet smile I've ever seen. It would have worked if I hadn't seen her threaten to stick a quill in her sister's ear at dinner last night.

You slick little cookie. I like you already. Now loosen up a little and I'll make you a queen.

"So tell me—what do you do with your time?"

"I draw," she says. "I dare say I'm not terribly good at it, but we must find our amusements where we can."

"True. Practice makes improvement."

"Also true. And you? How does the King in the North occupy himself?"

"He strategizes and plans and rules and then wishes that he doesn't have to."

"And yet you seem to be doing well. The title agrees with Your Grace."

"And here I am, in search of a lady with whom the title of queen might similarly agree."

"I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor, Your Grace," she says.

There's something about the detachment in her tone when she says this that clues me in to the fact that she doesn't plan on being that girl. I can't tell if it's because she doesn't want to—just that she doesn't think it'll be her. But really…why not? Of course she has no way of knowing that she's one of the Big Ten, but she's a damn beauty and I've had better conversation with her than I have with anyone else here so far.

You know how a table full of desserts is offered to you and you almost instantly know which one you want, but you have to try them all so you go around with one eye on the other desserts, but the other eye glued to that one you wanted the most? Well, that's what happens to me. Israel stays comfortably silent for the rest of the dance and when it's over I have to switch and dance with the remaining girls but I keep her in the corner of my eye. She doesn't leave the ballroom again, but she stays close to her father and stepmother. Her stepmother, by the way, is maybe a year or two younger than she is. They gather Roslin and huddle at the staircase with a big bowl of cherry tart filling that they dig into with long spoons. They just sit there, eating and giggling and whispering and squeaking and never once does their conversation seem to take them in my direction.

"Your Grace, come and eat something!" Olyvar says as Benny sits me down.

"You've been on your feet all night, Your Grace," Benny says. "Here, have some stew. Old family recipe, you know—we make it ourselves."

They place a big bowl of some thick, hearty liquid in front of me. It smells robust and aromatic. Seems harmless. I take a spoonful and it scarcely passes my throat before my eyes start to water and my head gets hot I get the distinct impression that I'm being poisoned. But then after a few seconds, my head clears up again and I'm breathing normally. I look at the two of them, still standing there, eagerly awaiting my judgement of their cooking skills.

"What do you think?" Benny asks. "Be honest."

Gods above. They're perfectly serious.

"I can _honestly_ say," I begin carefully. "That I've never tasted anything like it before."

And as unlikely as it is that I'll ever be able to taste anything ever again, I force a smile at them. They're in throes of ecstasy. Through the crowd, I can see Israel, Roslin and their stepmother watching me. They burst into laughter.

Well, at least someone's amused.

Later as the ball wears on, everyone becomes entertained because Walder falls asleep at his table and Waldron uses this opportunity to bring in the stronger libations. With proper drinks in our hands, the ball becomes much more merry—and much more disastrous. At least seven people break bones before the night is out.

"So what do you think?" Mother asks when I go into her room later. The sun is on the rise when the ball ends at last.

"They're…nice," I say.

"Anyone of them stand out in your head?"

"A few, yes."

"Which ones?"

"Well…I'd rather keep it to myself for now," I say. "We'll see how it turns out."

My mind's made up. Israel Frey, you have entered my line of fire. Because I like your grit, and I _especially_ like how you successfully fooled everyone into thinking that you have no grit at all. Because if I had that sort of skill, then I'd probably be a much better king. And maybe it's going to make you one helluva queen.


	4. Present: Day Two

_**The Twins, Present. Day Two.**_

"That's weird," Israel says, holding Ned up to see him better. "He's never so quiet when it's just the three of us."

"He's hungover," I tell her. "Your father gave him Dornish Red."

"Dornish Red?" Israel repeats, her brows furrowing. "Hm. Usually it's ale."

"Does this not disturb you in the slightest?"

"Not really. He did this with all of us. I thought you'd stop him, though."

"I thought he might kill me!"

Israel looks at me. Ned's head lulls around in her arms. His eyes are shut tight and he buries his face in her neck, blocking out the daylight. I can't really guess what she's thinking right now, and she hates when I ask her, but I just can't resist.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," she says, snickering. "It's just the idea of you being afraid of my Father…it's an amusing one."

"Well, he's intimidating."

Israel laughs out loud, and Ned grumbles grumpily because the noise doesn't agree with his present state of mind.

I've already resolved not to let Ned be in the same room as Walder if the man's got a goblet of wine, but then that would mean that Ned won't see him again at all because to tell you the truth I've yet to see the man without one.

Edmure and Catelyn join us for a walk through the grounds later in the day.

"How do you like Roslin?" I ask Edmure.

"She's a pretty girl," he says. He then peeks over his shoulder quickly to make sure Israel's not listening, but she's Bullshitting with Mother. "To be honest with you, I was sort of surprised at how many pretty daughters Walder Frey has. I mean…I'd been convinced we got lucky with Queen Israel."

Israel is done Bullshitting and silence has dominated as we walk along the field. Her art of Bullshitting is not what you might think I mean. It's not the standard 'make crap up' sort of Bullshitting. Israel has it down to a science. She half pays attention to what people say, and then the rest of the way she just interjects comments at the right time to get them thinking she's actually interested in what she's hearing, and then she cleverly muddles her way out of the conversation in that way that only Israel can. She was born to be a queen. If only I had that skill down like she does.

"Where's little Ned?" Mother asks.

"Inside sleeping off the hangover," I say.

Israel laughs again. She's never laughed so much as long as I've known her. But she's glowing now. Laughing at everything. I don't suppose I can begrudge her the joy of being home among family. She was on the brink of madness back at Winterfell, the 'brink' here meaning that I was seriously beginning to worry that I'd wake up one day and find that she'd eaten everyone in the castle.

We're here at the Twins for a reason and it's not a particularly nice one—at least Edmure doesn't seem to think so—but it's necessary because Arya point blank refuses to marry Waldron and now that I've gotten a good look at the guy I think I can understand her logic. Speaking of Waldron, he's here in the field with Olyvar, Garner and Benny and right away I know I've found it. The Frey Haze.

There's no family quite like the Freys. And by ' _there's no family quite like them_ ', I mean ' _holy shit, these people are fucking insane_ '. I knew that the second I saw them during my week as their newest addition. That was when I first had my Frey Haze. Hazing is a mean art, I've always believed—at least when I wasn't the one responsible for the hazing. But my definition of hazing involves harmless things like stuffing a quiver with sauce or sticking a fish into someone's bedspread. But of course because these are the Freys, everything they do or say has some deep psychological impact upon the unlucky bastard who's about to join forces with them. My Frey Haze left me pondering the meaning of life—and that was a toned down version because of the whole King thing. Edmure's is going to be _bad_.

And the worst part of the Frey Haze is that they don't actually _mean to do it_. They don't _intend_ to test someone's grit and weaken their will to live, they think they're simply being _friendly_. They think they're welcoming you into their family by doing these freakish things like whatever Waldron and his brothers are up to right now.

"What are you doing?" Israel asks as we approach them. Edmure is sort of springy. Nervous.

"Back up, Izzy," Garner says, patting the space on the grass next to him. Israel falls gracefully into the space and we all just watch the situation—Israel and her brothers with amusement and Mother, Edmure and I with mute nervousness.

They are gathered around an enormous steaming cauldron. Olyvar is on all fours on the ground, blowing determinedly into the fire to keep it going. It's already roaring so I don't really see the point but clearly nobody told him that. Waldron is stirring the boiling liquid with a large wooden spoon and Benny is tossing in what looks like a bone.

"What is that?" Mother asks. "Broth? A stew?"

"Yep," Garner says from his space on the ground. "Want a taste, brother Edmure?"

And Waldron offers up the spoon, and Mother nearly faints because there is what looks like a half-cooked goat's head dangling from it. As if on cue, an entire eyeball and a chunk of the tongue fall off and drop back into the cauldron.

"No, thank you," Edmure says slowly, and he has the look on his face that I had when they did this same exact thing to me—that look where he's so freaked out that he can't exactly be sure if they're serious or not. They're perfectly serious right now. They made this stew to celebrate his arrival. I know this because they made it to celebrate mine. It's…festive. "I just ate."

"You can try some later today, then," Benny says as, for some unknown reason, Olyvar starts to blow harder on the flames. "It's an old family recipe."

The eyeball that fell in floats to the top and stares at us all. "Hey, look!" Waldron says excitedly. "There's a piece of the old family!"

Israel and Garner chuckle from their spot on the ground. From the look on Israel's face, I can tell that bit's a joke.

"Sorry about that," Israel says to Edmure when we've bid them farewell and gone on our way again. "You don't have to eat it later. Just chuck it over your shoulder and the dogs will have at it."

Edmure releases a breath and it looks like he's completely deflated of hope in his life anymore.

"I've been where you are," I tell him. "I promise you it's not always like that."

"When is it not always like that?" he asks me.

"When you get away from the Twins," I say. "And you take Roslin to Riverrun. They won't follow you there. Feel pity for _me_. When we head back to Winterfell, Olyvar's coming with us."

We glance back. Olyvar's still blowing on the fire. Yep. I'm definitely the victim here.

"Tell me this is the worst of it," I whisper to Israel.

"I'm dealing with Winterfell for the rest of my life. I think you can handle my family for a week. At least they _like_ you."

"What? People in Winterfell don't like you?"

"I've accepted that it's not really anything personal," she says, shrugging. "Apparently they don't have much love anything coming out of the Twins."

"Well, _I_ love you," I say. And I mean it. How such a bizarre, rum crazed bunch of people could have turned out girls like these is one of life's great mysteries.

She smiles. "Good. Because I'm really starting to like you."

Ned is awake and sour when we get back to our room.

"You've got to do something about your father," I say.

Ned's still a little put out, but he's okay enough to sit up on his own. I rest my head on his lap and he runs his tiny hands over my face. That's my afternoon. But you know what? It's better than sitting in the drawing room with Walder Frey listening to a lengthy anecdote about the best pair of cans in the Riverlands and the fisherman's daughter they belonged to.

"The nurse will stay with him here," Israel says. "No more drunk babies. Happy?"

"Very. No offense, but I'm not too keen on this boy turning out like his uncles."

Israel has this look—not like she's offended—but like she really does see my point.

"Roslin likes Edmure," she says.

"Good. I was worried she'd think he's too old."

"Nah. He's a good kind of old looking. They'll do nicely together."

"What do you think, Ned?" I ask him. "You think they'll do well?"

Ned slaps me in the face with a hand soaked in spit. Good enough. I close my eyes as Ned runs his slimy hands over my cheeks and think of how lucky Edmure is to have Israel here to guide him through his Frey Haze. Because no one was around to tell _me_ not to eat the family stew.


	5. Past: Day Three

**Quick note:**

 **Anon, I'm glad you noticed Robb's strikingly different mannerism and thought pattern. All of that is intentional to show how close they've become. She's rubbed off on him. 'Holy shit, these people are fucking insane' was also intentional to show how they see each others families so differently. Israel thinks that Winterfell is full of nutjobs and Robb feels the same way about the Twins. The fact that Robb used a line that Israel is known to have used is sort of meant to link their thought patterns. I'm glad that you noticed it.**

 _ **The Twins, Past. Day Three.**_

Everyone is hungover when we all enter the great hall to breakfast. The place has never been so quiet. The ball ended at around sunrise and we all stumbled back to our rooms to cram in maybe three or four hours of sleep before it became officially too late to start the day. My eyes drift off to the girls as they come in, sometimes alone and sometimes in groups, curtsy to their father, and then take their seats at their table. Israel cracks an egg into her milk and barely gets a spoonful of fruit and cream to her mouth before she pushes everything aside and lays her aching head upon the table.

Near the far back at the younger boys' table, one of the twelve year olds is plucking at the strings of a lyre. The noise doesn't seem to agree with everyone's hangovers.

"Toby," Reina calls tiredly across the room to him. " _Please_."

He puts the instrument aside and returns to his food, and with no offensive headache inducing noise, we all return to our meals as peacefully as a gaggle of miserably hungover people can possibly manage to.

Mother walks with me through the grounds after we eat, and it's clear she's losing patience with my silence.

"What about Reina?"

"Out of the question," I say.

"Why? She's a pretty girl."

"She's too…" and my attention is seized by the faint outline of a girl obscured by the branches of a tree seated atop the stone wall separating the shrubbery from the riding fields. I smirk to myself. It's Israel. "Too…"

"Too what?"

I'd forgotten Mother was next to me. "She's too blonde," I say abruptly.

"Too blonde? Good heavens, Robb, what a snob you are. Objecting to a perfectly beautiful girl because she's a blonde? Poor girl can't help it."

"I suppose not," I say, turning my back to Israel. She can't know that I've seen her. She has to know I'm being honest. What would she say if she knew I was thinking of her? "But we just…there's nothing there. It just didn't rub the right way."

"Well, chemistry is important," Mother agrees, taking my arm as we proceed up the path. "Well, how about that Marlow? You seemed to get on well at dinner last night."

"To be honest with you, I don't think she's a good fit for me."

"Well, I do suppose she is rather…rambunctious."

"I've got my eye on one of them," I say. "She seems like the best choice."

"Which one is she?"

"Well…I'd rather not bring her up until I've had a good chance to speak with her."

"Will she be at this luncheon with the other girls?"

"She will."

"Well, be sharp about it, for Gods' sake," Mother says. "Marriage is a delicate business, you know."

"I know."

"And we can't go thinking romantically about anything because we don't live in a romantic world."

"I know."

"And she'll be a queen so we need to make sure she can be a good one."

"I knooooooow."

"I hope you do. This girl isn't just going to be your wife. She'll be the Mistress of Winterfell—and the North. We need to make sure we choose a girl who can actually get the job done."

"And what sort of girl do you think can get the job done?"

"A girl with a brain," Mother says instantly. "A girl with common sense. A girl who can handle people—lots of people—and not snap under the pressure. A girl who can handle the _northern_ people, because truth be told they're not an easy bunch to handle."

"And which of these girls do you think is capable of undertaking such an arduous ask?"

"It's difficult to say at this point," Mother says. "They all seem well-mannered enough, but well-mannered doesn't always mean capable. The most important quality we need is diplomacy. The queen needs to be a diplomat. If she can carefully handle people, then the rest will surely follow."

Can Israel Frey handle the North? It's hard to tell. She seems perfectly able to handle me and everyone else around her that I've seen so far, but that's because she's here in her home. She's comfortable enough to try because everything is familiar. But how will she react if I pluck her from this place and drop her in Winterfell? Will she still be the same? Or will she morph into her sister Roslin, cowering from her own shadow and leave me to take on the kingdom alone?

Luncheon is at late noon because everyone ate such delayed breakfasts. Israel is there, but she's obviously still battling a hangover because there's a goblet of tomato juice in front of her that she sips from slowly. She's sitting across the circular table, forbidding any intimate conversation. Dammit.

"Of course you don't get too many tourists coming through here," Aradel admits. "Most of them want to have their pictures drawn next to the bridge."

"I had a portrait drawn there," I sheepishly admit.

"I'd like to see that," Reina says. "I never do much drawing myself. I could never quite get it right."

"Lady Israel does, if I remember correctly," I say. She's lifted her head again to acknowledge she's heard me, but it's clear she's more interested in her tomato juice.

"Sketching," she says. "Not really artistic drawing. The real artist is Aradel. She'd give any court painter a run for their money."

"I'm gathering experience, I do confess," Aradel says.

"She should paint you sometime, Your Grace," Israel continues, and she works hard to keep the tired scratch out of her voice. "I think you'll find she is infinitely better than any Westerlands talent."

"That's a good idea," Reina says. "How about it then, Your Grace? Would you care to put Aradel's skill to the test?"

"Why not? Let's see what you can do."

The conversation lulls on and I detach myself from it from time to time to think on how desperately I don't want to be here right now. The girls don't notice—or they don't care—because they all talk and giggle and continue to amuse themselves perfectly fine without me. Works for me.

Israel's hangover seems to lose its hurricane-like force as luncheon wears on. She's sitting upright by the time we've moved onto tea and though she doesn't say much to me, she joins in the conversation enough so no one forget she's there.

"I don't even see what the point of a grand debut ball is anyways," says Lucyan. "It's just a clever way to advertise your family to the world. Can't the same be done by presenting a girl at the King's court? Then we'd be presented _and_ get to see some truly splendid sights en route."

"Oh, the glories of Mother Nature!" says Reina sarcastically. "What is our world of rules and conformity compared to the wondrous marvels of the Gods?"

I snort into my teacup. Lucyan doesn't catch the sarcasm immediately.

"I think Lucyan's right," Roslin says timidly after a while. "A ball seems like a waste of a perfectly good evening. Wouldn't it be more sensible if people were simply herded into groups and invited to actually carry conversations with each other instead of simply drink and dance the night away?"

"Perhaps it would be more sensible," says Israel. "But I don't think it could be called a ball anymore if that were the case."

That's all that comes out of her mouth before it's time for us to return to the Twins.

"Israel," I tell Mother the second I push the door to her room open. She's lying on her bed with a wet clothe over her eyes.

"What?"

"Israel," I say. "That's the one I have my eyes on."

Mother pulls the cloth off of her face and sits up, looking at me.

"What made you decide to tell me? Is your mind made up on her?"

"No," I say. "That's the problem. I'm not sure yet. But she feels like a good choice."

"I suppose she does," Mother says. "She's a pretty girl. And she seems very nice."

"She does," I say. "But I don't know much beyond that. It seems like if she senses someone observing her, she closes up and then really knowing her is impossible."

"Well, then we'll have to be stealthy," Mother says. "Leave it to me. I'll figure something out."

"What are you going to do?" I ask.

"Well…you say she's guarded around strangers?"

"Terribly. But you wouldn't be able to guess it simply from looking at her."

"Then how did you guess at it?"

It's hard to think of, really. Because in truth, I'm not sure how I saw through it. But maybe it's because that look she wears is the same one I've been trying to teach myself. She can be strong for the sake of someone's feelings, can win people over or at least pass as someone capable of winning people over. She can hold a good façade no matter how annoyed she is or inconvenient it may be to her.

And she has great tits. What more could a guy ask for?

"It's…hard to explain," I say. "But I really think she's the one we're looking for."

"Then…we'd have to try and catch her when she's off guard."

"I don't think a girl like this is ever off guard."

"All the better. We'll catch her when she's the closest to letting her guard down. Perhaps when she's around her sisters. Are there any of them that she's particularly close to?"

"Roslin," I say. "She's especially attached to her."

"Then I'll keep an eye on her. Go get some sleep, now. You look awful and no girl in her senses would be tempted to accept your hand if you look half a beast."

Everyone's sleeping pattern has been thrown off balance by last night's ball. So when it's nearly midnight and thanks to the afternoon naps we all took, no one seems even close to going to bed, it's hardly surprising that I should find people roaming the halls, chatting and lounging about.

Israel and Roslin are seated out on one of the balconies, staring out at the fields below. Roslin is smoking furrow bark. Israel is folding a piece of paper up into a little swan.

"I can never get the wings to fold right," she says frustratedly. I duck behind the door.

"Who do you think he'll pick?" Roslin asks.

"Aradel," is the immediate answer. "Or Bria."

"Five Factors?"

"Definitely."

Although I haven't the slightest clue what the hell the five factors are, I brush that aside and listen anyways. I had imagined that maybe she was being modest for the sake of appearances by glorifying Aradel's talent, but hearing her say it now only reinforces what I had previously thought. She doesn't think it'll be her. She had been trying to set me up with Aradel. She really doesn't have a hope. I don't know why, but that just makes me like her more.

"But what about Reina?"

"He doesn't like her. I heard him say it to Lady Catelyn. She rubbed him the wrong way."

"You mean like—she _rubbed_ him the wrong way?"

"No, like she just didn't click with him. He's not interested. She didn't rub him out, Roslin. Dammit, get your head out of the latrine."

"I'd have thought she'd have done that by now."

"Me, too. I'm impressed, now I think on it. Hey—when does Strawberry Man come around? He missed last week's delivery."

"Tomorrow, I think."

"Good. I'm all out."

"You seriously think he might choose Bria? I didn't think they got along at all."

"Yes, but she's more likely to give him a son. Kings need sons, don't they?"

"I suppose. What about Marlow or Walda? I thought they'd gotten along well at the ball, all that time they talked."

"Marlow spared him two minutes before she disappeared with that new stable boy Paul. And Walda—you can guess they probably talked about food."

"The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"Robb Stark doesn't look to me like the sort of chap to think too much on his wife's sensitive palette. Remember—he needs…a spark. Aradel seemed to spark nicely with him, didn't she? Father couldn't shut up about her."

"I just hope to the Seven we don't have to wear white again," Roslin says. "That was mortifying."

"I thought it was funny, actually," Israel says. She says something else, but I don't catch it because Mother turns the corner at that moment.

"What are you doing?" she whispers.

"I was observing," I say. "What are you doing?"

"Preparing to observe," she says.

"What are you-?" she cuts me off and heads out onto the balcony to join the girls. I peek out as discreetly as I can.

"Good evening, girls. I didn't think anyone else was out here."

"Good evening, Lady Catelyn," Israel says. "Lovely night, is it not?"

"Wonderful. It would appear that everyone is paying for last night."

"So it would seem," Israel says. "But it was a truly magical night."

"Indeed it was. Oh, Roslin, you're fresh as a raindrop. Blue becomes you."

"Thank you, Lady Catelyn."

"Can I trouble you to join me for dinner tomorrow? I'll be dining in my room and you can tell me who does your tailoring."

"I'd be honored, Madame."

"Excellent. Well, I'm off to find my brother. Enjoy the evening, girls."

"Goodnight, Lady Catelyn," they say in unison.

Mother reappears at my side. I stare at her.

"Israel," I say slowly. " _Israel_. Not Roslin."

"I know," she says.

"You invited the wrong girl."

"No, I didn't."

"Then what are-?"

"Shh," she places her hand over my mouth and we listen quietly.

"Lady Catelyn's invited me to dine with her tomorrow," Roslin says quietly, like she's trying to come to grips with it.

"She has," Israel says, and her voice is colored with amusement. "So it doesn't look like it'll be Aradel after all."

"We don't know that," Roslin says.

Israel giggles excitedly. "We do now. She invited you to dine with her!"

"We don't know that means anything! For all we know, it could be a nicety! She could be doing it with all of us! She'll probably invite you next!"

"Yes, because she has so much time on her hands that she'll dine with every single one of us—separately—to screen us all as potential brides. I think she likes you."

"Oh no," Roslin groans glumly. "I don't want that. I mean—I don't mind if she likes me, but I don't want to go to Winterfell."

"What will you wear?"

"I don't know," Roslin says. "You think I should have told her this is your dress I'm wearing?"

"Nah," Israel says. "She didn't invite you to dine with her because of the dress. She might be considering you."

"But what should I wear?"

"Come on, let's go dig through my closet. I'm sure we'll find you something nice."

"How many blue gowns do you have?"

"Dozens. You can take your pick."

And Mother and I hide behind a tapestry as they hold hands and whisper past us all the way up the stairs. As soon as they're gone, we emerge. Edmure and Bryndon walk past us and pause at the sight of us dusting ourselves off.

"What were you two doing in there?" asks Edmure.

"Covert operations," Mother says, turning to me. "Robb, it doesn't look like she's entertaining a single hope."

"I already knew that," I say.

"Who?" asks Bryndon.

"Which means that she's being as honest and forthright about herself as we can ever hope," Mother adds.

"Are we considering a girl?" asks Edmure. "Which one?"

"Which means that we now find ourselves facing a glorious opportunity to uncover the good, the bad, and everything in between."

"Who are we talking about?" asks Bryndon.

"Israel Frey," I say to them both. "We're seriously considering Israel Frey."

Bryndon lets out a low whistle.

"She's a beauty," he says. "Good choice."

"See what else you can pick up about her from her brothers, will you?" Mother asks them. "But quietly—we don't want to tip her off. It might startle her."

"She's being considered to become a queen, why would it startle her?" Edmure asks.

"She's the guarded sort," Mother says. "We don't want her to freeze up before we get the chance to investigate. Just—just be careful. We've given her the impression that we're considering her sister so that should provide us with a good cover."

Well, I'm not entirely sure about the two of them, but I for one am going to be _very_ careful _._ Because I noticed something just now when I was listening to her talk. I noticed something very, very important.

Her façade seemed to be rubbing off on me, because for a minute there I didn't feel like such a wreck.


	6. Present: Day Three

_**The Twins. Present. Day Three.** _

"We're going to get caught," Israel says as I take her hand and hurry her along.

"No, we won't," I say stubbornly. "I'm fairly sure no one comes here."

"What makes you say that?"

"Does anyone in your family actually pray?"

Israel is silent for a moment. "I don't appreciate the insinuation. Why do we have to do it here?"

"I want to try it."

"Then why am _I_ here?"

"Because you've done it before so odds are the Old Gods probably already hate you."

"I only did it once," she says defensively. I turn and stare at her skeptically. "Alright, a _few_ times."

"Exactly. So you're an expert on all things blasphemous."

Israel groans quietly as we sit down by the weirwood tree. I light the furrow bark and watch it burn. After a few seconds, the first tendrils of smoke start to rise.

"Oh, damn," she says. "I told these Gods I'd never do it again."

She's got that look on her face as she says it, and I know that I'm gonna pay for this someway, somehow, most likely before the week is out.

It takes a really long time to figure it out, but if you spend enough time around her then you will realize that Israel Frey has her own hidden language that absolutely no one in the world can ever _truly_ understand. She's a _damn_ good liar, mind you, so figuring out there's a language at all is no easy task. But all it takes is a single funny look or an accidental choked out sound or some small, minute detail that will make you start to sweat the possibility that the Queen in the North might just hate your rotten guts. Whether or not you'll notice these things is hard to tell. I might sound a bit like Israel for saying it this way, but in truth it depends on how good you are at detecting well-hidden lies, how good or bad her mood is when she sees you, and how much time you generally spend around her.

From the first moment she and Ser Garret met, I knew he had rubbed her the wrong way. And that was no real achievement on my part—of _course_ he rubbed her the wrong way. He generally rubs everyone the wrong way. He's a good steward but people tend to mind their distance from him because they get sort of irate at the idea of hanging around a rude, condescending asshole. But I have to side with Israel on this one as far as he's concerned—since the second they met he's been going out of his way to make her uncomfortable. Sometimes I like to think it's because he's keeping her on her toes, but then a part of me just squashes that and leaves me wondering if I should tell him that she might actually kill him one day. Because in truth I'm starting to think that she might.

After almost two years being married to her, I can safely say I have fluently learned most of her hidden language. And by fluently, I mean I've learned enough of it to understand that Ser Garret is doomed.

 **A Comprehensive Translation of the Most Common Things that Israel Frey Says When She is Homicidal**

' **Have you seen these sketches?'** \- It's a rouse to lure you away from her while she disappears into a closet with a plush cushion. One very long, muffled scream later, she is ready for round two.

' **Demon seems to like you.'** \- Be nice to me or he'll be chewing on your face.

' **You look awfully tired. Perhaps some nightshade to help you sleep?'** \- Whatever is in this glass is most definitely _not_ nightshade and will—in all likelihood—kill you. (Disclaimer—no one has died—yet.)

' **Have a wonderful day!'** \- I hope you like arsenic.

' **What delightful work you've done!'** \- Get away from me before I tear out your asshole.

' **You'll thank me one day'** \- You are going to hate me forever for this. In fact, you might possibly die because of it. Depends on the strength of your lower intestines.

I'd go on, really, but there are too many ways for her to show how she feels that I can't bother to think of them all. If she's cross, usually anyone who knows her well enough will be able to see it even if she doesn't use the above signature phrases that I've come to easily recognize as warning signs.

My interaction with my beautiful perfect Queen in the North has improved wonderfully—at least when you compare it to how we used to interact. I do confess it's terribly amusing to set her off. And it's not as though I'm being selfish—she needs to tell someone how she feels every now and again. Better it be me through a simple honest form of communication that we both understand than through more unsavory means—like flaying someone alive and boiling their skin into soap. She doesn't even bother to say those signature phrases to me anymore. I think she's figured out that it's pointless. Now when she's cross with me, she just throws things at me—but that's only when she's _really_ upset. When it's a mild annoyance, she has taken up the very mature habit of writing it to me in a pretty little note. She has a very charming bluish parchment that she uses and she rubs her hands all over the page so her perfume can catch onto the paper and this way it's always nice for me to read whatever is annoying her. Now I've even come to recognize the levels of annoyance based on the way she folds the notes. If it's a simple sailboat waiting on my desk, then she's only slightly bothered. If it's a cute little frog, then she's a tad sour. If it's a swan, then I'm one misstep away from having a chamberpot thrown at my head.

 **An Incomplete Collection of Charming Notes My Beautiful Perfect Wife Has Left Me**

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Allowing Grey Wind to sleep at the foot of our bed is not an invitation to let him bathe in the mosaic tile bathtub custom made with blue chips designed in Pentos. Picking direwolf hairs out of the tub is not in my maid's job description._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _I understand he is a very dear and loyal friend to you but I have very good reason to believe that your horse is trying to kill me. Please refrain from using him when we take our leisurely morning ride through the lung-freezing Northern air together if you would like to avoid raising Ned alone._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Your steward has a duty to serve Winterfell and its master and I understand and respect that duty and his dedication to carrying it out. Understanding and respecting said duties, however, does not mean in any way, shape, or form that I have completely banished the hopes of one day plucking his eyes out and eating them and when the day comes, remember that you were given fair warning._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Your mother has tasked me with planning a Velt Aralias. I don't even know what that is._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Ned has taken a disturbing liking to watching Demon and Grey Wind consume raw meats. Please do not take him near them at mealtimes._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _You left a bottle of boiled macau bean juice at my bedside this morning. I threw it out the window._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Kindly refrain from staring at my cleavage in the dining hall. It is discourteous and ungainly and makes us both look really dirty._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _You are a pervert. Stop staring at my chest._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _My inability to keep up with your nightly schedule as far as our intimate relations go does not have anything to do with a lack of staying power and therefore cannot be treated by drinking boiled macau bean juice. Rather it has more to do with my desire to keep my legs closed for a minimum of two nights a week so that I may emerge from our bedchambers and proceed with my daily duties as your wife and queen without first having to overcome the trauma of being unable to walk in a straight line._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Stop leaving the macau juice. I'm not going to drink it._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _In response to your refusal to give up on my Two Nights a Week Abstinence Program, I have elected to switch to my Total Abstinence Program. Have fun with your right hand._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _I do confess that you are very smooth when it comes to getting what you want and credit you for managing to get me to engage in relations with you without the aid of macau beans and causing me to break my vow of abstinence on my very first night. However smooth you may be, I am displeased that you have done this and have resolved to punish you for it by giving Ned a copy of the attached frightening drawing and telling him that the enormous mutilated creature depicted in aforementioned drawing is you in wolf form._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _I have decided to cancel the Total Abstinence Program because you are a slick animal. I have now resolved to tell anyone who asks me what it is like being married to you that you have genital warts._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _I've poisoned something in your dinner._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Today's council meeting was completely pointless and to show you how pointless it was I will be leaving you empty notes for the remainder of the week._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _The purpose of my operating on your nightly schedule is so that you can have your fill of me—or at least enough of me to be able to avoid sliding your hand over my backside during the daylight hours when everyone we see on a daily basis can plainly observe that you are seized by passion. I understand that I am the most amazing thing your ginger eyes have ever seen. Please show some restraint._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _In response to you refusal to remove your hands from my body during the day and your inability to keep aforementioned hands (or any other part of your body) to yourself during the night, I have elected to inform your mother that you like to be spanked._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _I didn't really tell your mother that. I don't know how I would. Stop groping me._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Your inability to keep your hands to yourself has paid off. I'm pregnant again. I checked with the maester for a gender this time because I don't want any surprises. I'll let you guess._

 _It's a boy._

 _It's a girl._

 _It's a moose._

 _I'm not pregnant and I just made that up because you are being a wild animal and I wanted to show you how dangerous acting like a wild animal can be._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Thank you for ceasing your groping. Sorry for throwing that rock at your head. Even sorrier that I missed._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

' _Dear Robb,_

 _Since you have been on such excellent behavior, I have decided to tell Ned that I was wrong about the picture and that the frightening creature depicted in it is really Ser Garret._

 _Love,_

 _Israel'_

The truth of the matter is that I don't honestly think my day is complete anymore without seeing one of these little blue things folded up on my desk waiting for me. We have an unspoken rule about never talking about the notes, but I've kept every single one of them.

And you know what the funniest thing is? When I first met her, she seemed so far away. But now I know that she's just so unbelievably wonderful that it makes me hope I'll die first because I'm not sure how I could ever even dream of living life without her. I knew this when I brought her to Winterfell, I knew this when she snapped like a maniac in the woods, and I knew it especially when Mother put Ned in my hands. But it was never more clear to me than when Israel woke up and the first thing she said upon laying eyes on her first born child was

"Mother of Mercy, it's a ginger."

I think that by that point all three of us needed a bottle.

"We're going to hell," I whisper quietly as the smoke rises rapidly.

"Which one?" she asks.

"Every one," I reply.

She pats my hand. "It won't be so bad," she says. "I'll get to watch you burn."

"Small comfort."

"It's the little things that make the difference," she assures me.


	7. Past: Day Four

_**The Twins. Past. Day Four.**_

"Her brothers say she's good fun," Edmure says. "She's not terribly active, but she's good fun."

"I heard a different report," Bryndon says. "One of the elder brothers says she's a damn stick in the mud."

"Roslin and I got to talking about her," Mother says as the last traces of her dinner with Roslin are cleared away from the balcony, leaving the four of us well and alone. "She's a fierce friend to her sister. But that's all I got out of her."

But my mind isn't with them. It's taking me back to this morning. To the view from the window of the wide stretch of grass and the high stone fence that she likes to sit atop as she draws whatever takes her fancy. Walking through the field, you'd be hard pressed to find her hiding there. You either find her by dumb luck or if you already know to be looking for her. But from the windows in the tower, you can see her close enough. You can see enough to tell that her hair seems almost blue in the right light. You can see that she taps her fingers when she's thinking. You can see that line that appears between her eyebrows when she knits them together in concentration, like she does as she sketches.

Her sketches are another story altogether. Watching her flip through their pages, I saw blueprints and then landscapes and then still-lifes and then people. Real people. Roslin and Walda and her father and her brothers and then a strange woman I can't identify. This is always the page she pauses at the longest. This strange woman who looks distantly like her but at the same time doesn't. And then her fingers tap and her brows knit and that line appears because something's not right about this picture and she doesn't know why. It only occurred to me a little while ago that maybe she doesn't recognize the woman she's trying to draw. Like she's making someone up in her head and the image in her mind keeps changing. But then a gust of wind will blow past her and her fingers will stop tapping, and her brows will loosen and she'll flip the pages to a landscape or a blueprint and it'll be gone again.

What I wouldn't give to switch faces that easily.

"Blueprints," I say suddenly, without really meaning to.

"What?"

"She sketches blueprints," I say.

"Blueprints...like buildings?"

"I'm not sure," I say, shaking my head. "Perhaps. I didn't get too good a look at them. But they looked like technical drawings. Like the sort of things we'd been seeing in the Builders' chambers with Stonemaster Edmund."

"Could she be _that_ 'Izzy'?" Edmure wonders aloud.

"What do you mean?" Mother asks.

"I was riding with Garner and Benny earlier this afternoon," Edmure says, shuddering at the memory. "Complete _loons_ , let me tell you-"

"Edmure."

"Sorry. Anyways, we were riding far ahead near the forest and there by the clearing was a tower they'd only just recently erected. Garner called it Izzy's tower. I didn't think on it at the time, but...how many other people here do you think could be called Izzy?"

"Not too many, I'm sure," Mother says. "Ask around. Try to sound technical. We're still trying to be discreet."

And Bryndon and Edmure are gone. Mother sits back and stares into the fire and I close my eyes and listen to the crackle.

"Why her?" she asks after a while.

"Hm?"

"You wanted a spark," she says. "Yet here you are investigating a girl I have yet to see you engage in conversation with for longer than a waltz tune. Have you ever even spoken to her alone?"

I'm about to answer in the positive, but then I think back and realize that since the waltz at the ball doesn't count, I've never really been alone with her. Mother just eyes me.

"Why her?" she asks again.

"I don't know," I admit after a while.

And it's true. Maybe it's because of how desperately I wish I could be her. Or be like her. And maybe it's because her grit is reassuring-like Talisa used to reassure me. And maybe it's because she just feels like she could be a queen one day. Like she could do the job. Like there's a brain in her skull. Like she knows how to use it. Maybe it's because I just _feel_ like she's the right one. And the most I can do now is hope that whatever instinct is telling me to push for this girl is a good one.

Mother doesn't say anything. But it looks like she understands. I just lean my head back and close my eyes, focusing on the crackling of the fire and praying that Israel Frey might be something like Mother.


	8. Present: Day Four

**Quick Note:  
**

 **Terribly sorry for the delay. I've been taking exams (CAN YOU SAY COLLEGE GRADUATE BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT I AM NOW!) and there have been a lot of piled up problems preventing me from uploading this. But now my schedule has cleared up so here it is.**

 **Also to Anon: thanks for your continued support and to answer your question I've got loads of other things that I haven't posted and haven't ever really thought about posting but if you'd like to see them then I'll gladly put them up for you to take a peek at. But I'd like to wait until Infinites is done because posting more than one fanfiction at a time really makes my head spin since none of them are done yet :)**

 **Also, as a general note, I had some random asshole hating on this thing back when I was still posting Absolutes and I'd have let that go by now but I just got some really rude AF message in my inbox and I've got the nagging feeling that it's that same rude AF random asshole. So, to Rude AF Random Asshole, since I am a toddler who must get the last word, let me say this:**

 **1\. You suck as a human being.**

 **2\. Blueprints existed during medieval times, you uneducated shit. Kudos to you for successfully making me doubt my certainty on the history of engineering, but nice try.**

 **3\. Using the phrase 'ring on my finger' that Israel did might not be accurate for the times, and I'm not entirely sure you're wrong to have pointed that out as graciously as you did (insert sarcasm here because you have no fucking manners) but during Season 4 of Game of Thrones, Sansa wears a gold ring on a very important finger and this is during her brief stint as Lady Tyrion Lannister. Now this ring might have represented the Lannister's 'ownership' of her since she was a hostage, but it's worth pointing out because it was there and it's proof that wedding jewelry may not have existed in medieval times, but it definitely had a place in George R.R. Martin's world.**

 **Having said that, thank you for taking the time out of your lackluster life to judge this fanfiction that will never really get further than this website. I am fucking done here now.**

 _ **The Twins. Present. Day Four.**_

No one had been around to tell me what I was getting into when I agreed to marry into this family, and if they had, then I don't really think I'd have agreed to it at all. Edmure has that advantage now, but strange and unfair as it may seem I really don't want to tell him. Because Israel swears up and down that she and Roslin are cut from the same cloth, which means that Edmure is likely going to be _very_ happy soon enough, and if I tell him what he's getting into then he'll walk away from it as surely as I would have and then he'll be miserable with some normal, mentally stable wife who has all of her wits about her and would be fawned over by any man in his senses. As it is, I don't think any man in his senses could ever be tempted to marry a Frey girl, and that's exactly why every man should. I'm half inclined to keep a steady stream of women floating in Walder Frey's direction forever just so he can keep making daughters.

The only guilt I'd be inclined to feel is in not telling Edmure that even the wondrous women coming out of this family have—at some point in their lives—slipped past the boundaries of ' _a tiny bit odd_ ' and into the vast, uncharted territory of ' _completely unhinged_ '. I have known this about my wife for quite some time now, but I didn't really stop to dwell on it once before now, with Israel sitting directly across from me in our chambers.

"What sort of question is that?" I ask her, hoping that she'll repeat it because I can't quite believe she's just asked me but at the same time hoping that she'll never ask it again.

"A really important one," she says as Ned giggles on her lap. "I've been wondering for well over a year now. Would you?"

"Would I-? Why on earth would you wonder about something like that?"

"Because I'm concerned that I might be married to a man that would," she says. Ned starts to yawn now so Nurse Madge takes him away, closing the door behind her.

"I'm not answering that."

"Yes, you are," she says. "Would you squeal?"

"I honestly don't know," I say, and this situation is so ridiculous and insane that I can't do anything but laugh. "I don't fucking know. Do you think I would? Do I look like a squealer to you?"

"If I knew, do you honestly think I'd be asking you?"

"I don't know. Do I look like one?"

"You do, a bit," she says. "But you don't act like someone who would, which is why I'm asking you and putting us both in this situation."

"I look like a squealer?"

"But you don't act like one. Hence my confusion on the matter."

"Do you think I'd squeal?"

"No," she says. "At least I hope you won't. I have complete faith in you."

I hate it when she says that line. ' _I have complete faith in you_ '. She uses it on people she hates, like Ser Garret, to put them in a tight spot because she knows that they'll never contradict her without first admitting that her faith in them is completely undeserved. So I can't actually tell her that I'm not sure what I would do or what noise I would make if she were to stick her fingers into my asshole. Which is the sort of question that demonstrates just how catastrophically fucked up the people in this family are.

And now she's smiling because she knows that she's got me in an interesting bind. Well whatever. If all this time with her has taught me anything, it's how to maneuver her interesting binds.

"Here's an idea," I say. "Why don't you get to work on sticking your fingers in there and we'll find out?"

Her face scrunches up into a tiny little dot of horror colored by vague curiosity. And then her brain starts to work overtime. I can tell when she's thinking hard because her eyes get colder. She's calculating. Trying to weigh the knowledge of whether or not I would squeal and seeing if it outweighs the psychological trauma that would be caused by having to stick her fingers into my asshole. I'm thinking that she might be tempted to leave the question unanswered. To maintain the sense of the unknown in our marriage. She'd go to great lengths to keep that wall between us. Never did she make this clearer to me than when she was in labor. I remember that night with crystal clarity.

I like to let Israel believe that she still has some secrets that I don't know about, but to tell you the honest truth she came clean—with or without her own knowledge—about most of her secrets the night Ned was born.

I had been having a nightcap with Edmure and Bryndon that night. It was late in the council chambers and no one wanted to stay up. The wine was just to help us get to sleep faster. But then out of nowhere, in came Ser Garret, panting and white faced and sporting an ugly red weal on his cheek.

"What happened to you?" Edmure asked, and we laughed at the state of him.

"Lady Catelyn," he said, blowing his hair out of his face. "I've been sent to inform you, Your Grace. It's the queen—she…it's time."

And then we all dropped our wineglasses and ran for the Regency Chambers. My heart was pounding harder than it should have been considering it really wasn't that far a run. But it was the conversation that Israel and I had that morning that made my heart race. Because she had somehow accepted the slight, minute, infinite possibility that she might not survive this stage.

My mother had been standing right beside the door.

"What's happened?" I asked her. "How goes it?"

"You can't go inside," Mother told me.

"Why not?" Edmure asks. "It's his child!"

"Israel refuses to let him in," Mother told us.

As if on cue, we heard it from within. " _IF THAT WHORE SHOWS HIS FACE I'LL KILL HIM! THIS IS ALL HIS FAULT!_ "

Edmure winced.

"You were perfectly charming," I still assure her whenever we get to remembering that night (which you should know doesn't actually happen often).

"Well, you clearly don't remember that night as I do," she always says back.

Disclaimer: In my defense, I _do_ remember that night…and day…with more than a little discomfort. Which is why I know better than to nag her for another child. Partially because she's the one who's gonna have to squeeze it out in the end, but mostly because I spent that entire night and day outside of the chambers listening to her enthusiastically command every God in the world—old, new, red or eastern—to avenge her by making me trip and fall into a boiling vat of oil. It's not exactly easy to forget the sounds of your icy, focused, in control wife screaming ' _SOMEONEGOKILLHIMNOW_ ' or other delightful things like ' _MYWAISTLINEISHISTORY_ ' and ' _GETTHATFUCKINGHOLYWATERAWAYFROMME_ '.

That night was made up entirely of screaming, rushing about, Maester Ormond praying, and sobriety. I tried to get drunk, but Israel wouldn't let them give me wine. We all had to settle for water because apparently this whole thing was entirely my fault and if she wasn't allowed to have wine, then neither was I.

The biggest element of that night was fear. Real fear. I'm familiar with fear. I was afraid I'd lose the war. I was afraid I'd doom the North. I was afraid I wouldn't be strong enough to save my sisters. I was afraid I'd never see home again. But sitting there outside of the Regency Chambers, listening to Israel rasping once she lost the strength to speak, that was when fear, _real_ fear, found me at last. Because it occurred to me then that she had been right. She might not make it. And I'd refused to believe it at the time because she had always seemed so unbreakable. She's the strongest person I know. She makes men five times her size look like kittens. I knew it almost as soon as I saw her, I knew it when I brought her to Winterfell for the first time. I knew it. Israel Frey is iron grit. That's why I chose her. And I know that at some points, it seemed like she was _too_ iron grit. I got upset when I couldn't find that human frailty. But I depend on it. And I had no clue how much I had come to depend on it until it dawned on me that she might not make it. And there I was, doing exactly what I had been doing since the moment I married her—depending on her to make me strong. And there she was, getting weaker by the minute and it was all because of me.

For a few hours there, I'd cursed myself. I just sat there and cursed myself and cursed everyone who had encouraged me to choose her. I pulled her out of her home, took her away from everyone and everything she knew and placed her in a land of strangers—most of whom were not terribly welcoming people. And sometimes I had watched her navigate with amusement, because it _did_ amuse me to see her work everything out on her own. Because I _liked_ watching her struggle. Because she was so strong—and I was so broken—that I wanted to see how far I could take her before I broke her, too. Before we could be broken together. But she still refused to break. Nothing I threw at her hit the mark. She wiped it off and kept going. She fought for me when I stopped fighting for myself. And after all that, all she was going to get for her troubles was death. The worst sort of death—the death of a young mother. And that night, I hated myself more than ever. Because I should have chosen one of her sisters. I should have chosen a weaker one. I should have chosen anyone else.

I should have chosen Talisa.

The thought took me more by surprise than anything, but the longer I thought on it, the truer it became. I would have chosen Talisa and taken _whatever_ consequences came my way if it meant that Israel would never have crossed paths with me—because then she'd have been safe in her home, happy and away from Winterfell and all those hateful faces that are so ungrateful for everything she's done for them. She'd be home with her family, with her father and sisters and brothers who all love her and believe in her. She'd have been safe. Safe and strong and alive.

But there she was, slowly dying right beyond the stone walls in the castle she rebuilt from the ground up. It just seemed like life and everyone in it— _especially_ me—had been so tragically unfair to her.

I'd thought on it once or twice during the war—the idea of dying. You can't help but ponder the possibility of your own death during a war. Death is all there is. But that night, there had been no war that I could see but one—a war between life and death, and there was Israel fighting alone on the battlefield.

I left. I left for the Godswood of all places, where I'd heard her let slip that she'd once smoked furrowbark and I sat there and listened to the world around me, wondering how she must have been feeling that night she'd been there. I went to her parlor and sat in her favorite chair and tried to wonder how many nights this room had given her comfort when she found none from me. I went into our chambers and sat behind the writing desk she loved and the drawing station she worked at and there I found—of all things—a letter to our unborn child.

 _Dear Piglet,_

 _I've got a pretty good feeling that you'll be coming today, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to see you at last. It's been a wild and strange year here in Winterfell, but because of you I know it's going to end well. Your father—pigheaded gingersnap that he is—refuses to accept the fact that I might possibly die delivering you into the world, so I'm here today writing this in my chamber just in case I don't make it._

 _Winterfell is a place full of dreamers. I knew it the second I saw them. I saw dreams and shades of grey and possibles and maybes and half truths and right away I didn't feel like I fit in here because I don't think like that. I don't deal in possibles and maybes and half-truths. I deal in absolutes, in the blacks and whites and the probables and the dependables. But I'm learning to come out of that habit in some areas of my life and it's doing me well so far—I think._

 _I didn't know my mother growing up. I've told the whole world that I don't remember her, but I do. She died when I was young—very young—but I remember enough about her to keep her alive in my mind. I don't think about her often—just when I really need her. After I was born, she got weak. She got weaker and sicker and one day it killed her, so sometimes people like to call it a childbirth complication that never went away. I sometimes wonder how she would have felt knowing that maybe it was my fault that she died, and sometimes it's made me feel guilty that I should get to live at the price of her life. But I now know how she felt. She didn't mind dying for me, and I'd very much like to live, but I don't suppose I'd mind dying for you, either. Without you, I'd never have been able to know how she felt in her last days. But I feel like I know her a little better now, and for that I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart. I want you to know that boy or girl, you're my favorite person here. You're my favorite person anywhere. You are not how I planned my life out to be, but I'm happy with it either way. I hope you remember that when your life turns out funny and so off course that sometimes it's a good thing. So don't ever despair or break when people start to hate on you or the world makes you doubt yourself. Everything will always right itself in the end. And if it doesn't, then it isn't the end._

 _Yours,_

 _Israel_

 _P.S.: Don't ever squeal._

I rolled that letter back up and put it away and told every god I could think of that this would be the last battle I would ever leave Israel to fight alone. All they had to do was bring her back to me. And when I went back to the Regency Chambers, I could hear from within the cries of a child.

I've never questioned anything about that night but one small little detail—what exactly she had meant when she said to our boy ' _don't ever squeal_ '. And I could never ask her without first confessing that I had read the letter, and something tells me that wouldn't go over very well. So I'm relieved that she's brought it up herself. Relieved and horrified.

"I think I'll just let it remain a mystery," she says, at last.

"Wise," I nod.

Our fingers intertwine. I can see, in the dim light, that she's steadily gaining weight. She went overboard trying to drop the excess she gained while expecting Ned. Now she has to gain some back so she can properly fill out her gowns. I pull her hand close and kiss it.

"Don't be a sap," she says, rolling her eyes. But I can feel her smiling…on the inside.

"I adore you," I tell her, because I feel like I can never tell her enough.

"I hope you do," she says back. "Because I'm really starting to like you and Ned."

"Glad to hear it."


	9. Past: Day Five

_**The Twins. Past. Day Five.**_

Around the time the last of the war had ended, I began to hate getting letters. During the war they weren't too bad. Small notes carrying little pieces of intelligence from far flung areas of the kingdom. But once the weapons were sheathed at last and the celebrations had begun, they got longer. And more complex. Simple messages and quickly jotted tactical ideas gave way to full blown letters with proposals and choices to be made. Where to station this legion? How many men do we dispatch to see to the Dreadfort? How do we organize border patrol?

Shoot me in the face. With a mace.

But sometimes, amongst the mountain of letters waiting for me every morning, I find a little treat. A message from Jon. Word from Rickon. News on the Bolton capture. And maybe a green envelope lined with gold patterns and the swirly scrawl of an unmistakably feminine hand.

 _Dear Robb,_

 _I'm pleased to hear you've gone at last to the Twins to make good on your deal with Walder Frey. I had begun to fret that you may have changed your mind. The situation here hasn't changed much since I wrote you last. Only now that Arya has arrived things have certainly gotten more exciting. Loras has taken up training her in swordplay. She excells. She's bested him twice already. Lady Olenna swears up and down that Arya is the best thing to happen to Highgarden._

 _Lady Margaery has settled the terms of her engagement, but I'm pleased to say that she'll be staying in Highgarden. Her future husband is so old, in any case, that he'll hardly notice if she's by his side or not._

 _I wept for hours when I got word from Jon that Rickon was en route to Winterfell. I hope to be seeing you all there sometime in the future. Arya is scarcely less eager to return home as well. But until things have settled, we're well and truly trapped in place._

 _While on the subject of state, I have recently returned from King's Landing and have spoken to Stannis about dismantling that gigantic army you two pulled together. There are so many details to be drummed out, but Loras is helping me. He's turned it into a game of sorts. Such a wonderful young man I have the fortune of calling my husband._

 _The peach orchard is still my favorite place. Not just while it's in full bloom. Once the fruit has been picked, the trees are bare and late at night if I stand out under the full moon, I can pretend that I'm in the woods in Winterfell. Only it's not cold._

 _All my love and best wishes,_

 _Sansa_

Letters like this get me thinking about what a wonderful family I have. I smile at it, at her curvy writing, at the gold lining on the page, for what seems almost like a decade just remembering how she looked last I saw her. How she must look now. How they both must have changed.

"YOU DIRTY _TOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDD_!"

I'm the first person to open the door and pop my head out into the corridor. Seven more have followed suit in the next second-my mother, Edmure, and Bryndon amongst them.

"What was that?" Edmure asks.

I shrug.

" _GIVE IT BACK OR I'LL FEED YOU YOUR TEETH!_ "

"Someone fetch one of the boys!" an elderly voice calls from below. "The girls have gone mad!"

Of course there's no way to not be curious after hearing things like this. So I like to think none of us are being nosy by dashing downstairs to the girl's floor beneath us to see what all the fuss is about. And what a sight it is.

The girls have all assembled inside of a single bedroom. I couldn't tell you whose room it is, only that it's big. Big enough that all of them-eligible and otherwise-can fit inside comfortably.

Being the eldest of six (Jon included) siblings, it sort of goes without saying that I've seen a fair share of fights. When I fight with Jon or Theon, it's over quick as a blink. But watching Sansa and Arya fight has always been a different story. Sure, their lack of access to the weapons that Jon, Theon and I have always had readily available made their fights initially seem a little lackluster, but there's nothing dull about watching girls tear each other's hair out and screech every single secret they've ever known about each other at the top of their lungs. And to tell you the truth, watching a gaggle of Frey girls tear each other's hair out and screech every single secret they've ever known about each other at the top of their lungs is a whole different ball game and I knew that before I saw the door vibrating as the shrill screeches and violent thuds on the other side of the wall quickly awaken the entire castle.

"What in creation?" grumbles the Septa as she hurries to the door. "Girls? _Girls!_ Open this door no-"

And she's abruptly cut off as the door opens and she's slammed right in the face and then pinned behind it. The door swings back lamely and we are all afforded a brilliant view of silk gowns and shiny hair as the lovely ladies of House Frey attempt to render their rare species extinct by annhilating each other.

"LET ME GO YOU GODLESS, BUG EATING, SHRIMP EYED, COW BRAINED, SCUM SUCKING LUMP ON A LOG!"

"I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR HAIR OUT!"

"You're half bald and everyone knows it! Oh, fair maiden, doth your lover nightly sing praises about thine _long golden hair extensions_?!"

And then Roslin crawls out on all fours, and for good measure, she reaches out and closes the door behind her tightly.

"Good morning," she squeaks to us as she huddles up into a little ball.

"What on _earth_ is happening in there?" the Septa asks as she holds a cloth to staunch the bleeding from her nose.

From the limited words Roslin uses to explain, I gather that the war began when the two pretty ones had a little spat about who got to use the exotic hairbrush and since the fat one was not yet awake no one was there to mediate the rights to use the damn thing and then the others got involved when a stray flying object inadvertedly hit someone in the face and then fingers were licked and inserted into people's ears and the rest, as they say, is history. 'History' here being blood and skin underneath manicured fingernails as hair is torn out and floats carelessly to the floor.

The door opens as two younger girls are pinned against it and I have to duck out of the way as they roll past me, pulling hair and scratching at each other's faces. Roslin just backs further away from them but doesn't unfurl from her ball.

 **The Big Ten and Why They Need Straightjackets**

 **Aradel Frey:** "I hate this stupid ribbon!" _Riiiiip_. "Why do you even wear it?! Are you _aware_ of how juvenile you look?!"

 **Reina Frey:** "It's a symbol of distinction, you airheaded tramp! I forgot those bloody Mormonts never taught you about that as they breastfed you until you were eight!"

 **Rhea Frey:** "Put that bloody thing down or I'll scalp you with it like a nomad savage!"

 **Lucyan Frey:** "Watch me break off your fingers and stick them to your forehead!"

 **Brea Frey:** "For once you won't be sticking fingers into your usual crevice-the one you've got your head shoved into every night of the week!"

 **Jaclyn Frey:** "And once I scratch your eyes out you'll be so deaf you won't even hear the Trumpet sound on Judgement Day!"

 **Walda Frey:** "You'd need to scratch her ears, not her eyes, you stupid bint."

 **Marlow Frey: "** Whose bloody hair am I holding? What is this?"

 **Israel Frey:** "It's mine, you mindless tart. Who else has hair that dark? Let it go before I tear yours out and use it to strangle you."

And I assume that her hair has been released because she's the first one out. And her eyes fall upon the entire crowd gathered outside of the door, then upon Roslin, and that's all she gets to see before someone has slammed right into her side, knocking her over.

"Get off it, girls!"

Garner Frey has arrived and is apparently wise enough to have brought reinforcements. Benny and Waldron are hot on his heels as they proceed to pry the girls apart. Israel is still being assaulted on the floor and her mystery assailant has to be pulled off of her with Benny and Garner's combined efforts.

At lunch that day, the girls are unwisely seated together, purple or bleeding in some area and nursing battle wounds that seem much worse than anything I've ever seen in the medical camp during the war.

"Families," Bryndon murmurs to me quietly. "Who'd be without them?"

I bite back my laugh. Israel is nursing a split lip and a bruised knuckle as she casually converses with Marlow, who is stroking the hair that she had been yanking at viciously only hours before.

Families are messy, I suppose. And big families are especially messy. And a Frey family is damn catastrophic. But they're family in the end. So the maiming and killing can't really be permanent. And if it is...well, it'll always make for a great story one day.

"I talked to Walder," Bryndon says. "That's Izzy. So she made the tower."

"That certainly recommends her," Mother says.

"But I think we ought to see her technical work firsthand," Edmure says. "Which is why I'm headed off to the archives tomorrow to take a look. If she has any talent, she may even be able to aid in the rebuilding of Winterfell."

"Give me that back," Reina says icily from their table, and the calm waters grow rough again.

"No, it's mine anyways," Rhea says.

"Says who?"

"It's neither of yours," Walda says. "So you'll both have to share it."

And Israel picks up her wineglass and pushes her seat back, safely out of range of the first of the flying fists. I smile. Talent or no talent, I've made up my mind. She's coming with me.

"Your Grace," says an attendant. "You've a fair bit of post that's just arrived from Riverrun."

Letters.

"Right," I grumble. "Send them to my study."


	10. Present: Day Five

_**Thanks to all for your lovely reviews.**_

 _ **The Twins. Present. Day Five.**_

From the moment I discovered that she was pregnant, I had been living with the constant fear that motherhood would change Israel. I knew so many people who had changed because of it.

Israel has more of her father in her than most people would believe. Like Walder, she can drink. She never shows it, but she can. Also like Walder, she can match wits with the sharpest of men. Also like Walder, she's sneaky. She acts sweet. She smiles. She charms. She laughs. But really she's easily one of the most devious people in the North—quite possibly in Westeros. If she had higher aspirations, she'd have been damn dangerous. But she doesn't—I wish people could see that. All she wants is peace of mind.

They say a sharp eagle never shows her claws. I'm half inclined to believe that whoever said that must clearly have meant Israel Frey specifically. But that's why her pending motherhood frightened me. I was worried that once she had a child, she'd be different.

I was wrong. Oh, was I wrong.

Israel Frey—again demonstrating her similarity to her father—is a very strong supporter of the theory that states 'what cannot kill you makes you stronger', almost to the point where it sometimes seems as if she's _asking_ the world to try and kill Ned.

Except in my case. In my case, she supports the theory 'what doesn't kill you disappoints me'. It works for us.

"Don't _do_ that," she hisses at me as I chuckle.

She really hates when I pop up around her like that. If we were in Winterfell she'd have thrown something at me. But she's more relaxed here. I have to schedule the girl a vacation here every so often. It does her good.

"I thought we had a deal," I say. "We keep Ned away from your father."

And I tilt my chin to Walder, who sits by the window with Ned on his lap, drawing the face of the hideous hog that he almost died hunting nearly forty years ago. The picture is so ugly it could scare a small child. Like my baby son. Ned is frozen in shock. His entire fist is in his mouth and his eyes are huge as he takes the image in.

"…and the beast was a tough bastard, he was," Walder tells him. "When you make your first kill, you'd do well to pick a prettier one. Maybe an elk. Those'll do. And you won't have to worry about your wife complaining about how the head doesn't compliment the décor. Because mine sure did when I brought that hog head in that day, I remember."

Ned is still staring.

"Tell him about that stableboy Micah," Israel suggests. "He'd like to hear about him."

"Right," Walder nods. "Micah was a stableboy that came around some fifteen years ago. He was always a simple sort of boy. We took him in because we pitied him, truth be told. But if he wasn't the funniest sort of chap that ever set foot in this castle…"

I'll say this for Ned—he's a well behaved baby. He's quiet. He keeps himself busy. He hardly ever cries. My mother and I have already figured out what this means—he gets my face, but he's got Israel in him. I'm not entirely sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I think it might be both.

My first clue was his introversion. He can't exactly talk, but he makes those drawn out noises and giggles that babies do at his age. What I noticed is that he only 'talks' around us. Israel and I, my mother, and sometimes Edmure or Bryndon. That's it. No one else. Not even the nurses.

"Well, he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut," Israel said the first time I noticed it.

"You were like this as a child?"

"That's what they tell me. Means he'll make an excellent prince. He belongs in a king's court."

"I'm slightly disturbed by this development."

"He's going to be damn clever," she had said. "What's disturbing about that?"

"He's going to end up like his mother. Which means he'll spend most of his time hating everyone he sees and wondering who'd squeal if they were penetrated from the back."

"That was a one-time thing and I had a legitimate concern."

"It's going to be one of your life's greatest mysteries and that makes it a lifetime concern of mine. For your sanity."

"The lung freezing northern air can do that to a person," Israel says. "Tamper with their sanity."

"Riverlands air seems to have an impact as well. All this dirt and trees and lake water."

"That's called fresh air, love," she says.

"And northern air isn't fresh?"

"No, it's frozen. Fresh and frozen aren't the same. There really is a fine line there."

I yank on her arm today and pull her onto my lap. She glares at me and Ned giggles at the sudden movement. I don't know why sudden movement excites him. It just does. Walder is pleased at the sound. He probably thinks he's managed to make Ned laugh. Israel smiles at Ned and he laughs harder.

Ned is a Mama's boy. Israel is good for him. She understands him. I've never heard of a baby so obedient at his age. She'll have no trouble with him as he gets older. If he survives until then, which you should know—at the rate he's going—is highly unlikely.

"Israel, he's doing it again," I say to her quietly as Walder gives Ned a lick of rum from his finger.

"It'll strengthen his system," Israel says. "It's not like he'll be doing it forever. We'll be gone in two bloody days."

And she pulls herself off of my lap and heads outside, wiggling her fingers at Ned before she goes. His smile is gone as soon as she leaves. His frown makes my brows furrow. Slowly, he starts to whimper.

"Get Izzy back in here," Walder says to the maid, who rushes off quickly.

Like I said. Mama's boy.

Ned's cried a few times before. He doesn't do it often, but he's human, dammit. Usually it's because he's annoyed by someone. Sometimes it's when he's tired and everyone is pinching his cheeks and won't let him sleep. But sometimes it's simply because Israel has left the vicinity, like now. And you can tell that was it because she doesn't even need to pick him up. All she needs to do is walk back into the room and the frown is gone. He doesn't typically need her to carry him. But the Twins is no place to be raising a child, and he seems to know this, so he holds out his short little arms to her, begging her to get him away from his mentally unsound grandfather. His fists clench and unclench, and I notice that he has a dimple on the side of his right hand. That's definitely something he got from her. He keeps on reaching for her until he gets frustrated and lets out a light wail. Israel rolls her eyes and crosses the room to him, scooping him up. He buries his face in her neck and doesn't move again.

"I don't think rum agrees with him, Papa," Israel says. "We'd best stick to wine."

"Wine always works," Walder nods. "He's a little gent of taste."

"Come on, you little ginger brat," Israel mumbles into Ned's ear. He sticks his finger into his mouth and makes a small, drawn out hum as she carries him out of the room. "Let's go get ourselves some fresh air while we can."

I follow her out of the room and onto the grounds. She stops by the fence where she used to sit so long ago.

"He has a dimple on his hand," I tell her. "The same one you have."

"Does he?" she asks, holding his tiny fist up to get a good look. "What do you know? He does. You're in luck, Gingersnap Junior. You've got my hands."

"He doesn't seem to have much else of you in there," I lament. Right from the moment I'd found out she was carrying, I'd hoped that he'd look something like her. Israel has the sort of face you'd want to pass on to a child.

"No, no, no," she says. "He has my beauty mark. Look at it. There by his eye. See?"

"Yeah, but what else?"

"Well…he has my smile."

"You mean the actual smile or the tendency to use it politically?"

"Well…both. Think on it. He looks like you, but he thinks like me."

"He's a combination of the worst parts of us."

"Well, I can see what you mean when you talk about his looks," she says, holding Ned up to the light to see him from all angles. "I'd really rather he had my hair. What are the odds, huh?"

"Didn't you say you had a redhead grandparent?"

"My mother's father, yes. But no one talks about him."

"Because he moved to Braavos?"

"No. Because he was a ginger. Weren't you paying attention?"

"Being ginger actually isn't all bad."

"I certainly hope not. For his sake."

Ned yawns, pulling his hand out of his mouth to stretch lazily before he curls back up onto her shoulder.

"I can't let him sleep," she says. "He'll be up all night and I don't want him to miss the wedding."

"Heaven forbid he witness a Frey wedding."

"There's no wedding like a Frey wedding," Israel says as she shows Ned the apple tree. He busies himself with trying to bite into an apple, but his teeth are only just starting to poke through so he has a hard time sinking them in.

"No there is not," I say, silently recalling ours.

Nope. Motherhood hasn't changed her at all.


	11. Past: Day Six

_**The Twins. Past. Day Six.**_

"Some one mentioned blueprints in the archives," Edmure says. "Apparently they're in reasonable shape."

"Of course there are blueprints," I say. "What did you expect her to plot on?"

"I dunno, really," he shrugs. "But it certainly makes things easier. I mean-have you ever actually _seen_ the archives? They're not exactly in ship shape. I'll be sifting through them until Judgement Day but at least now I know what to look for."

His hair is a mess and he smells of old parchment and stale ink. There's a clear layer of dust coating almost every inch of his clothing. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon camped out in the archives on the hunt for Israel Frey's sketches before someone deigned to inform him that she had taken the professional route and created actual blueprints.

"Blueprints are impressive," Mother says. "But those alone are not enough. When will you ride?"

Edmure coughs up his wine. Mother glares at him.

"I've already sent them a card," I assure her. "We'll be heading out in an hour."

This late into the week, inviting the advances or spending time alone with any one of them will draw immediate suspicion, and to avoid having Israel retreat into her shell from the scrutiny, certain steps had to be taken. If I was to converse with any of the girls, I had to be seen with more than one. I could never linger on one for too long lest she misconstrue my intentions. Each one had to get her share of attention. This makes life extremely difficult, but that's what mothers are for.

"Keep them busy," I had told her. "It takes away attention."

I chose from amongst the Frey daughters the most inconspicuous bunch to ride out with this afternoon, and naturally-well concealed amongst them-is my true target. The pretty ones were out of the question-they take up my attention and refuse to let it go, and I need to be able to focus on the prime candidate.

Roslin, in. Marlow, in. Walda, in. Lucyan, in. Rhea, in. Israel, _way_ in.

There it is. The most unassuming gathering of ladies in House Frey. And whilst the two mentally unsound ones keep the group busy, I can _incidentally_ stalk/observe Lady Blueprints.

"It feels as though we haven't ridden in years," Walda says as we trot through the fields. "Could it only have been a few months?"

"Seven," Roslin says.

"Seven? Seven months? What have we been doing cooped up in the castle for seven months?"

"Eating."

"Eating? For seven months? Well, we did make some fine tarts, didn't we? I loved that one with the blueberry and treacle..."

Bryndon appears to be craving death as Walda relates to him the intricacies of tart baking. I angle Shadow away and try to catch snippets of the conversation going on ahead.

"...and he insisted that he would be fine, so they let him go home," Lucyan is saying. "So they let him go home, but then when they came around to check on him in the morning they found that he'd hanged himself in the night."

"But why?" Marlow asks.

"Because he was mad," Rhea guesses simply.

"Because he was devastated," Israel says. They simply stare at her. She shrugs. "Imagine if someone had done it to you. A believer is happier than a skeptic."

"Where have I heard that quote?" Marlow asks.

"I'll not be telling you," Israel says. "Recalling inspiring words is far more important than recalling where you heard them, anyways."

"Eloquence was always your strong suit. If only you were as gifted with originality."

"And if you were only as gifted with amiability."

"I don't see a point in pretending to like people that I don't like," Marlow says. "Even forced politeness towards one's enemy is deception and I despise deception in any form."

"There are times when deception is the wiser alternative."

"Deception is never a wise alternative. I'd rather hear an ugly truth than a pretty lie."

"Well, you'd make an excellent politician."

"No, she wouldn't," Rhea says. "Politicians need to know how to win people over."

"No they don't," Israel says. "Politicians all have one little quirk-they have perfected the art of knowing nothing whilst pretending to know everything."

"Then _you'd_ make an excellent one, Izzy. So insincere and forcing a smile. So falsely polite and soothing."

"No one is honest unless they are also exceedingly imprudent," Israel says.

"Well then I'd recommend you to marry a politician," Marlow says. "If you cannot, then you will undoubtedly make a fine philosopher."

"Now where have I heard that quote?" Israel asks with a smirk.

Marlow rolls her eyes. "I've just had the alarming suspicion that you were trying to be amusing, Izzy."

"And I've just realized with some shock that you were trying to be clever."

"How do I compare?"

"You could use some work," Israel says. Marlow narrows her eyes at her, to which Israel smirks again. "Do you still prefer the ugly truth?"

"Perhaps I do."

"The ugly truth, Marlow, is that you will undoubtedly make a terribly good queen in the North," she says. "As I understand it, they're much like you in the sense that they're a blunt, misunderstanding bunch." She says this last part quietly, her eyes darting back quickly to make sure my attention is elsewhere. But I've made myself appear 'distracted' with Bryndon and Walda and so slip undetected.

"How would one go about handling such a bunch as the Northerners?" Lucyan wonders.

"How bad can they be?" Israel asks.

"Good point," Rhea says. "People are people. But perhaps this is a conversation we'd best have with Reina or Aradel. Are they not the primary candidates?"

"I don't think so," Israel says, and her voice by this point has dropped so low that hearing her whilst avoiding detection has become nearly impossible.

"Well, who do you think it is?"

And Israel giggles and whispers something excitedly, but her words get swallowed up by an oncoming gust of wind before they can reach me. I'm so frustrated that I've missed out on this juicy bit of gossip that for a moment I forget that _I_ am the subject and determine what it is they're talking about.

"It could be her," Marlow agrees. "I mean-did Lady Catelyn really dine with her?"

"She did. She said it was to discuss 'tailoring', but she didn't fool me."

"Wasn't she wearing _your_ gown that night?"

"Exactly. It didn't even fit her right. Why would the king's mother want to talk about that?"

"But I've barely seen him say two words to her," Lucyan says.

"He's being careful," Israel says. "Trying to throw us off her scent. Distracting us all with rides and such. But I'm not stupid. Every single gathering he's attended has had her in them somewhere. The luncheons, the tour, the tourney-why, he even went looking for her at the ball!"

"Did he really?"

"Indeed. She had scarcely been out for a minute with me before he came barreling after her-made some half baked excuse about wanting _air_."

"But do you think it a smart arrangement? Roslin in Winterfell?"

"Admittedly, no," Israel says. "I dare say it'd be a disaster. Roslin cowers from her own shadow."

"She'll never survive," Rhea agrees. "Friendly the people there may be, but she'll never last so far from home."

"Is that...is that Olyvar?" Israel asks, narrowing her eyes at the treeline, where Olyvar is just disappearing while sporting a frighteningly large feather headdress.

"I think so," Lucyan says after a while. "Where's he gone off to?"

"Probably a rain dance," Israel says. "He's been learning strange things from the passing gypsies. I'm gonna go join him."

"You can't leave, the king will notice."

"No he won't. He's only using us as a smoke screen anyways. The one he wants is over there."

And she quietly disappears from the corner of my eye with stealth that would have been admirable if I hadn't been paying close attention to her.

Mother's smoke screen appears to have worked well, and I'm quick to tell her that as soon as we're alone again.

"Where did she go off to?" she asks me. "I was being sucked into a vortex of meat pie recipes but I swear I saw her leave."

"She's convinced we're after Roslin."

"Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Not when she's using it as an excuse to disappear every time we get too close."

"There's hardly any purpose in bothering trying to learn any more about her," Mother says. "Edmure says he's close to finding her prints and if the reports about her are any indication, she's the one we're looking for."

"Yes, but don't you think it might be a bit prudent to know more about her?"

"It's anything _but_ prudent, Robb," she tells me. "Nine and a half times out of ten, a marriage is better if you go in blind."

I'm about to respond but I'm rendered speechless because of the sheer absurdity of what I've just heard. All I can do now is pray and pray and pray that Israel is not _exactly_ like Mother.


	12. Present: Day Six

**Quick Note:  
**

 **Shoutout to my friend Classic-Colors, who I have only recently discovered is the proud mother to a bouncing baby boy. Congrats, doll!**

 **(Insert happy freakout here because I fucking love babies.)**

 **Also to the anon who leaves epic reviews: unfortunately Sansa and Arya won't be making an appearance. Sansa, however, will be starring in her own VERY short ficlet that is of similar flavor to this series and I'll get onto writing that as soon as I can make my brain stop bleeding from the misery and stress of life as a post-grad.**

 **Thank you all for your wonderful reviews and I'm terribly sorry for the long wait. Whoever kept up with Absolutes knows that long waits between updates is _NOT_ my style at all.**

 _ **The Twins. Present. Day Six.**_

We all awaken bright and early. We wouldn't have. Really—no one would have. But Edmure has yelled half the castle awake in the stretch of ten minutes because apparently he woke up to the strangest sounds under his bed and looked down there only to discover that Ovylar had passed the night beneath him. And Waldron is right by the bedside with a steaming mug of something that looks awfully like the family stew.

"It's a special brew," Waldron says, cramming the mug into Edmure's shaky hands. "Increases potency."

"That's awfully kind of you," Edmure says as Bryndon and I wipe the tears and drool from our faces. "But I really don't need any help of that variety. I'll perform just fine on my own."

"That's what they all say," Waldron says.

Edmure looks helplessly at me. I shrug, wiping another stray tear. He grudgingly takes a sip of the liquid, and then his face pales. His cheeks flush and for a moment I think he's about to pass out. He coughs violently into his pillow and looks at Waldron, flabbergasted.

"What is this _poison_?" he asks, horrified. "What's in this?"

"Let's just say we made it ourselves," Waldron says.

"Made it ourselves," Olyvar repeats, popping his head out from under the bed long enough to get the words out before he disappears underneath it again.

Edmure is already leaning out the window, regurgitating out into the crisp morning.

"What a way to start a wedding," says Walder's voice as he appears at the door. He comes inside slowly, balancing himself with his enormous cane in one hand and baby Ned in the other. Walder makes himself comfortable on the very edge of Edmure's bed, watching him throw up with a satisfied look on his face that troubles me. "It's not a real wedding until the groom has drunken himself insensate."

"He's not drunk," I tell him. "He ate a funny bit of grub."

"Oh…well, that works, too. Don't it, baby Ned?" Walder shakes Ned pointedly.

Ned gives me a look that plainly wishes me a painful death. And I stand here in awe, wondering how it's possible to be getting this sort of look from a seven month old baby, but then I remember who his mother is.

I see fit to free Ned from Walder's clutches around noon, and since the wedding itself won't be until tonight, I spend the day walking around the grounds with Ned.

"It's certainly warmer around here than it is back home. You miss home, Ned? Don't worry. We'll be back soon. Back home and safely away from those loons."

I pause at the sight of the great stone fence. Ned gurgles at me.

"Look over there, Ned. See that fence? Your mother used to sit on it and spy on me. She still sits there sometimes…just when no one's watching. She really loves it here. So we'll have to part with her a few times a year so she can have some peace of mind…with her family."

Ned just blinks at me. "Atttaaaaatttaaaaatta."

"I know, I know…but _they're_ her family, too. They sort of had her first. And you've got to let her come back every now and then…because she's really attached to them. Which is strange, because I don't remember Grandma Catelyn being so attached to her family when I was growing up. Winterfell…sort of consumed her."

Ned pokes my cheek.

"They call her Izzy here. I've never seen her so informal. It's…interesting. Maybe one day she'll be like this around us, eh? Well…maybe you. You're her favorite person, you know."

Ned squeals, his voice rising and falling in volume as he shakes his head around, taking in the world around him. A cool breeze blows past us and Ned closes his eyes as the air tickles his face. He giggles and when his eyes open, I'm floored for a second because for just a moment there I swear I can hear my father's laugh. I haven't heard it in so long I'd all but forgotten what it even sounds like. He laughs again, and there it is.

"You were named after a hero," I tell him. "You'd better remember that."

But Ned doesn't seem to hear me. Instead, he reaches impatiently for something past my line of vision. I turn around to find Israel approaching us with an extra cloak in her hand. She throws it over Ned as she takes him. He tries to give her a sloppy wet kiss, but she easily deflects it, so he settles for playing with a stray dark curl that has come loose from her ponytail.

"Waldron says it'll get a bit chilly tonight," she says.

I raise a brow. "Are we seriously going to take Waldron's word?"

Israel shrugs. "He's rarely wrong about the weather. Makes everyone take him really seriously."

"I doubt anything else would. He just poisoned Edmure with some potency tonic."

"Oh, that was a practical joke. Didn't they give you one on our wedding day?"

"No, they gave me a _real_ one. Don't you remember? It was up for hours that night."

"I thought that was just you. I was horrified."

"They won't ever try anything like that with Ned, will they?"

"Goodness, no. He's one of them."

And we pause for a moment to look at him, and he laughs again.

"He has my father's laugh," I say.

Israel blinks at me. "I was wondering where he got that from. Because I've never heard it before."

"It's his."

Israel looks back at Ned. "You hear that, Ned? That's called parental pressure. You've just had your first dose. See, there's a man we know…a really great one…and his name was Ned, too. And you've got to be just like him, if not better. So keep your nose clean. Squeaky clean. And keep laughing."

Ned leans forward and tries to lick her nose. She ducks back and he ends up kissing the air. He doesn't mind. It's a game they play. He tries to kiss her, she avoids it. I let him give me his soppy kisses. He should be able to win with one of us. She ducks out of his reach again and he giggles harder.

Israel keeps Ned for the rest of the day. In consequence, I don't see either of them until I finally leave Edmure's company and leave for the Great Hall at sundown. Israel is there, and she's in her favorite color—a triumphant shimmering silver.

"I think I've found my lucky color," she said the first time I saw her in it—the day we showed Ned to the world.

Roslin is a quiet, reclusive little thing. She is really the polar opposite of Israel. While Roslin is a real princess at heart, you'd need to do an awful lot of prying to get to that side of her. Israel, on the other hand, has all the _appearance_ of social extroversion. You have to sit back and think on it really hard until you realize that you don't actually know anything about her.

"She's fresh as a daisy," Bryndon says as we watch Roslin give Edmure a quiet smile.

Our own wedding was out on the gardens. Roslin and Edmure are married in the last light of the day, and then we're all swept away to the Dining Hall for the celebration. It's much darker than our wedding had been, but then I remember that our wedding was at high noon. I think Israel had just wanted to get it over with. But Roslin is, as I've gathered, not a fan of long, drawn out celebrations. She'd wanted the wedding at sunset so the celebration would be shorter. For her, the highlight would be the ceremony. For Israel, the highlight had been going to sleep at last and—if I know her at all—trying to sponge the whole day from her memory.

Olyvar surprises me immensely-it's just after midnight when he finally sets something on fire. It's a barrel of mead, and it blows sky high and almost brings down part of the roof with it. The only thing about this that seems to upset anyone is that an entire barrel of mead was wasted. Ned is horrified by the noise and it takes the combined efforts of Israel and both his nursemaids a half hour to calm him.

"Look at that," Israel says as we watch Roslin feed Edmure berries. "I knew they'd get along."

"We'll add that to your skill set. Matchmaking."

"You should. How do you feel about Ser Garret and Stonemaster Edmund?"

"I'd gotten the impression that they might have already gotten that far."

"Apparently they haven't. Hogarth thinks we should dope them. Speaking of Hogarth, I was thinking of setting him up with Julia."

"Your maid?"

"That's the one."

"Does Hogarth even like women?"

"He doesn't like men, if that's what you're thinking."

"No, not that-I'd just been of the opinion that he didn't prefer anybody."

"Well, neither do I. Which is why his marriage-like mine-has to be shoved down his throat. He'll thank us later. In the meantime, I'll need to recruit a new maid."

"Perhaps one of your sisters?"

"I want someone to serve me, not murder me."

And we're distracted as Edmure and Roslin are carried out of the hall. Israel just leans back and watches Ned try and pull off her fingers.

"You think maybe we should have talked them out of the bedding?"

"Nah. Why?"

"Well, it seems fair. Edmure talked my Father out of making me go through it."

"Really? We didnt have a bedding?"

"How can you not remember that? The fight almost got everyone killed."

"I was drunk."

"How much can someone drink to forget _that_?"

"I'd been drinking with Waldron."

"You kept up with Waldron? Are you sure you're not a Frey?"

"Who knows?" I shrug. "I'm sure we have some relation. Riverlands and the North have tied together so often it seems almost impossible for us not to have some overlapping branches on the family tree."

Israel just sips at her wine and dodges a slobbery kiss expertly, and because Ned is clearly disappointed (he really thought he had this one), she puts down her wineglass and raises him up slightly so he can land the kiss on me instead.

"Silver is your triumph color now, too," Israel says to him as she bounces him up and down. He giggles so hard she has to stop so he can catch his breath. "It'll be our family color. We'll wear it to strike fear into the hearts of bitches and Ser Garret. And it's one of the few colors that can work with Papa's hideous pasty ginger complexion."

"That's _his_ hideous pasty ginger complexion, too. You notice he takes after me."

"Yes, but he's mine so by default he's better than you."

"That's the stupidest argument I've ever heard."

"Yeah, but it won the battle."

"You win the battle, but you lost the war because I got you pregnant in the first place."

"I hate you."

"I love you."

I pause. I don't think I've ever said it like that before. I mean-I had imagined that it may have slipped out at some point recently, but from the way she's looking all thoughtful I'm starting to think that maybe it hadn't.

"I love you both," I say, just to be clear.

Israel rolls her eyes and whispers 'sap' under her breath as she turns back to the slowly unfolding madhouse. Ned lets out a long, happy warble and claps his hands at the sight of Olyvar getting his face beaten in by a drunk Garner. I'd move to stop Garner, but it's occurred to me that if Olyvar is incapacitated then he might not be able to come back to Winterfell with us. Ned grabs my hand and tugs hard, gripping my fingers and singing his off key nonsensical tune. I take him onto my lap and try to show him how to clap. He learns quickly, but applauds at all the wrong times. Like when people get hurt or things catch fire or someone almost dies.

Later in our chambers, Ned is only just being whisked away to his nursery when Israel finally tucks in. I've been under for almost an hour but she stayed awake to help the nurses lull him to sleep. I only know she's joined me when I feel the bed shift. But then her fingers touch my forehead, pushing some of my hair out of the way. I keep my eyes closed. She's either checking if I'm still breathing or has just had an epiphany and is about to slap me awake to relate it to me (both have happened (multiple times)).

Instead, neither happens. She just moves my hair and seems to be doing nothing but breathing. I almost open my eyes. But then, at last, she just lets out a long sigh and her hand is gone at last. And she says it only when I'm 'asleep' because it's not her style to say it when I'm awake. It's not her style to say it at all, but she'll never admit I've grown on her enough to make her do all kinds of things she'd never do, say all kinds of things she'd never say.

"We love you, too."


	13. Past: Day Seven

_**The Twins. Past. Day Seven.**_

"I really couldn't care less if she's done the bloody blueprints or not," I say. "My mind's made up."

"I'm with Robb," Edmure says. "I breakfasted with her and some of the others this morning. She's a treat of a girl. She'd do well at Winterfell."

"If that's all anyone cares about," Bryndon says. "Edmure's searching for an excuse not to have to go back into the archives."

"Of bloody course I am."

"Well, I'll go, then," he says, and he walks off determinedly.

"I'll give him an hour," Edmure says. "Those archives are the seventh hell."

Afternoon is dragging into early evening and the entire tower is unusually quiet. Today's the day. It should bring me some measure of peace to know this whole mess is finally over. But I dreamt of Talisa last night. And I don't know when that'll ever stop.

"Marriage is a negotiation, not a war," Mother says. "You both need to compromise and to communicate."

"Mm hm," I say, trying not to make it immediately obvious that everything she's just said has flown out of my other ear.

"Confront every obstacle as a team," she drones on. "Your marriage is the foundation upon which Winterfell and the Northern kingdom will be built. It's strength will be the North's strength. If you are divided, you will fail."

"Yeah," I say, trying to replace Talisa's pin straight locks with Israel's soft, shiny waves.

Their differences seem to stick out as my eyes gloss over the table where she sits dining with her sisters, still unaware of the future that awaits her. Her hair is blacker than the night-blacker than Talisa's. Her skin is paler. Her cheeks pinker. Her figure fuller. Her lashes longer. Her eyes brighter. She might seem like the most obvious choice of the two. But I'm going to miss Talisa. I miss her already.

"It might be frightening for her," Mother goes on. Does she never get tired of giving unsolicited advice? "Just remember that she might be alarmed. Overwhelmed. She's never left the Riverlands before. To suddenly be placed in a strange place and be made to govern a foreign people might intimidate her. Just make sure that you present yourself as an ally to her. Leave her alone and she'll fall into despair and there's only so much that I can do."

"Right," I say, carefully observing that maybe it won't be so bad being married to this girl because at least she's pretty.

"Try to have a conversation at least once a day," Mother continues. "It might be awkward at first, but you'll ease into it on your own as you get to know each other."

"Yes."

"Your father and I used to walk to the Godswood together. Try that."

"Alright."

"Remember: teamwork is key."

"Yep."

"Good. Then my work is done."

"Indeed."

I'm rather ashamed of the way that the tables are cleared after dinner and pushed aside, leaving the center of the room quite empty. Twenty one ladies all stand waiting. It's positively mortifying for them, I suppose, but outright unnerving for me. Walder walks beside me slowly, his cane click clacking on the ground. The mood in the room shifts from suspenseful to shocked as soon as I shuffle past Reina and Aradel. I wish Walder would pick up the pace. I'm trying not to build suspense because this isn't a show. But he's so slow it's impossible to do otherwise.

At long last, I'm standing before her. She's so uninterested in the situation that her nailbeds hold more promise of entertainment than I do. But when I pause before her, she starts. Her eyes look dead ahead, and then slowly travel upwards to meet mine. Her brows furrow, like she's made some unprecedented discovery or perhaps a severe miscalculation. Her eyes dart around the room, settling on some unseen point beyond my shoulder, and then fall back on me. Finally, truth dawns on her as I catch her hand and plant a kiss on her skin.

"Lady Israel," I say slowly. "Will you marry me?"

For a moment I think she's hiccupped, and then she nods slightly.

As the room breaks out into applause, Israel's hand stays locked in mine. Hers is soft as a cloud-like she's never touched a thing a day in her life. Her skin shimmers delicately. Her bare arms are covered in beauty marks. There are little details I see now that I can freely observe her that I didn't get the chance to see before. Little details that get me thinking that maybe I can do it. Maybe I can give this whole thing a chance and maybe it won't be completely awful. I mean-it'll still be bad. But maybe not _awful_. Maybe that's the most I can hope for. For a future that isn't awful. But any kind of future is better than no future at all, right? And mayhap no future at all is exactly what I'll have if I don't go through with it.

For the good of the North. For the good of the North. For the good of the North.

I catch her eye once during the evening. She gives me a smile. Confident and pretty. Thrown off course by my choice but recovered instantly-or at least enough to put on a show for everyone who's watching. And maybe that can be what keeps me going through this whole marriage ordeal. Maybe that can be my next big mission-unlocking the secret to that confidence. To that certainty. To that surety. To that strength.

So it's settled then. I'm going to crack this egg and see what's hiding in the center. And maybe then I can suck it out and it'll make me better. It's a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at. I give her hand a friendly squeeze. I feel better already.

Hello, Israel Frey. My name is Robb Stark and I'm going to be just like you.


	14. Present: Day Seven

**Last chapter. Sad, I know, but I've told the tale I wanted to tell and at last I feel at peace with it. Is this the end of my GOT fancraze? You bet your ass it isn't. Thanks to all the people who stuck with it so loyally. You really do make it worth it.  
**

 _ **The Twins. Present. Day Seven.**_

Ned is laughing so hard that I'm worried for his breathing. Everyone is smilng at the sounds as they walk along the halls. I hurry to his nursery to see what all the fuss is about, but he's not in there. Instead, he's in our room, lying on his back on the furs of our bed. Israel is sitting upright beside him, and every few seconds she ducks her head and tickles his neck or his stomach.

"Take a breathing break, Ned," she says after another minute, and she picks him up and sits him down on her lap. "Are the happy couple ready to go?" she asks me.

"They will be," I tell her. "We'll head out around midafternoon."

"I've never been to Riverrun," she says.

"You'll like it."

Edmure had made up his mind long ago that staying a day longer than absolutely necessary at the Twins was never going to happen. But while our paths lay together as far as Riverrun, it was decided that Israel and I would make a pit stop there for three days on our way back to Winterfell. It's advantageous all around: Israel gets a stay of execution before returning to Winterfell, Roslin gets to spend the first few days in her new home with a familiar face, and Mother gets a homecoming. The only really annoying thing about this whole arrangement is that Olyvar Frey is alive and his face is only half purple, which won't hinder any plans to come with us.

"Is that them?" Israel asks, scooping Ned up and carrying him to the window. I glance out as well. There, on the open field, Edmure and Roslin walk arm in arm slowly into the apple orchard.

"Lovebirds," I whisper, chuckling to myself.

"Saps," Israel grunts. "What a pair of saps, Ned."

"Tatatatatatatututututatatututaaaaaaaahhhhh."

"Oh hush," Israel rolls her eyes. "No one cares what you think."

"I care what he thinks."

"No one cares what you think, either."

And our gaze leads us back to the pair strolling through the field. They look-as far as I can tell-like a couple of doves completely enamored.

"You think they'll be alright?"

"I certainly hope so," she says. "They seem to get on. I always knew Edmure was a romantic at heart."

"And Roslin?"

"Undoubtedly."

"You don't seem confident."

"It's hard to tell what'll become of them."

"That frustrates you?"

"I don't like not being able to tell what'll happen."

"That's called the element of mystery."

"It's called ignorance."

"Then we're all ignorant."

"Hence my frustration," Israel says.

"There's nothing wrong with not knowing."

"Yes, there is. It makes it damn near impossible to calculate the facts."

"You can't calculate everything."

"I learned that the hard way."

"Sometimes it seems as though you've learned nothing at all."

"Absolutes," she says flatly.

"What?"

"That's what I call them. The facts. Positives. Givens. Absolutes."

"Absolutes."

"Absolutes. Hogarth calls them definitives."

"You and Hogarth are both headcases."

"We're headcases with facts."

"Well, your facts are mental. I've made it just fine without your absolutes and your definitives. I believe in...infinites."

"Infinites?"

"Yep."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know. I just made it up. But it's the opposite of absolutes. So it means maybe. Possibly. Words you should consider adding to your dictionary."

"Here are some words for _your_ dictionary: yes and no. Right and wrong. Black and white. Things make sense in there."

"I'm sure they do," I say. "And if you stick to black and white, then you'll never be wrong. But you'll never move forward, either."

She blinks at me, her brows furrowing in thought, and I can tell she's thinking hard about what I say.

"Shades of gray are where the world can grow and thrive," I continue. "It's where the magic happens. It's where infinites come out to play. It's only when people dare to do something different-something that's neither black nor white-that anything extraordinary can happen. No one would have dreamed that the North would wage war on King's Landing. But we did it. Gray. No one would have guessed that I'd keep my word to your father. But I did it. Gray."

"Murky and unreliable," she says. "But with some truth to it."

And her eyes fall on Ned, who is playing with the bell pull behind her. We don't need to say a word to know that he's going to need to hear this talk too one day. Because he's definitely a black and white baby. But we both win this round because while he's black and white, the fact that he was born at all means that shades of gray are just as reliable as black and white. Because Israel Frey had to step into gray to mother a child. She had to step into gray to get married. To become a queen. To venture into the unknown. We're all treading those lines between black, white and gray without even knowing it. It seems that every day we wake up and face the world and every choice we make helps bring us a little closer to the principles that define us. Maybe Israel is going to need more time to figure out what defines her, but she's well on her way. And this is most definitely not a battle I'll let her fight alone.

"I learned something today," she says after a while. She walks back to the bed and lowers Ned onto the fur, then hurries to the nightstand and pulls loose a massive scroll. She unrolls it on the desk by the window and beckons me over. "Come and see."

And I walk over to the ancient paper. It looks like a geneology chart, old and tattered and yellowed with age.

"What's this?"

"It's the Frey family tree," she says. "I consulted it this morning. What you said last night got me curious. Look at this."

And she points a primly manicured finger to a few arrows several lines down. We have to have gone back three or four generations.

"Adaline Frey," I say. "Your..."

"Great great aunt. And look here."

And I do. "She married a Stark."

"Not just any Stark. Look. Edwyn Stark. Your-"

"Great great uncle."

"So..that means we're..."

"I've already tried to reason it," Israel says. "It makes us either fourth cousins five times removed, or fifth cousins four times removed. It's difficult to say since this chart really isn't terribly accurate."

"We truly are cousins?"

"Indeed. Most unfortunate. That makes this quite incestuous."

"You're barking," I say flatly, but I have to laugh.

"It's true!" Israel says, and humor colors her eyes as she tries not to smile. "Look at Ned! He's inbred! He's practically a Lannister!"

"Disgraceful!" I say, and we inch closer to Ned, who is watching us suspiciously. He rolls over to crawl away, but we're too quick for him. I scoop him up and Israel lands her fatal tickle on his stomach. As soon as his laughter's subsided, I look up at Israel because it's just struck me how peaceful this week has been.

"Do it to me baby," I say, dropping my voice about twelve octaves and dragging it to make it sound husky.

The effect is instant. Her smile becomes a hideous snarl as she reaches for the heaviest object in reach-a paperweight-and throws it at my head. I duck and it hits the opposite wall, and Ned and I laugh for a half an hour.

"One week of peace," she says. "That's all you had to do. You were almost there, too!"

"It had to be done," I say, trying my best to sound solemn. It doesn't work, and I end up laughing for another half hour.

And that's how we spend our afternoon until Mother comes around to collect us for our journey home. It's not the first afternoon we've utterly thrown out the window doing complete nonsense, nor will it be the last. But I don't care. And neither does Israel. That's an absolute.


End file.
